But the small girl was babbling, and a look of the most profound surprise came slowly into the old woman's face. A little pearl-like tear sparkled in either of her old eyes, and she gathered this cherished grand-daughter from far away Macassar into her thin arms.
At that sight Peter felt himself out of place, an intruder, an interloper. The scene was not meant for his eyes. He was an alien in a strange land.
As he hesitated, conjuring up words of parting with his little friend, he gasped. Peering through the thick window-pane in the door was the red-faced man, and his look sent a curdle of fear into Peter's brave heart. Would he shoot through the pane?
The girl, too, saw. She chattered a long moment to her wrinkled grandmother, and this latter leaped to the door and shot a second strong bolt. She pointed excitedly to a rear door, low and green, set deep in the blue stone.
Peter leaped toward it. Half opening this, he saw a tiny garden surrounded by low, gray walls. He paused. The maid from Macassar was behind him. She followed him out and closed the door.
"Birahi," she said in her tinkling voice, and with gravity far in advance of her summers, "we must part now—forever?"
He nodded, as he searched the wall for a likely place to jump. "It is the penalty of friendship, birahi. You do not mind if I call you birahi in our last moment together?"
"No. No."
"I am curious, so curious, my brave one, about the red-faced man, and the one with the black coat. But we women are meant for silence. Birahi, I have played no part—I have been like a dead lily—a burden. Perhaps, if you are in great danger——"
"I am in great danger, small one. The red toad wants my life, and you must detain him."