“Kyrie Selaka, I have a favor to ask you—the very greatest one man can ask another.”
I looked round into his face as I spoke, and knew I was pale to the lips.
“You wish to see my daughter,” said Selaka gravely.
“Nay, I have seen her. I want you to take me to her.”
The old man sat for awhile motionless as a statue, then he rose, and paced the terrace in severe and anxious reflection.
After a pause, that seemed to me interminable, he stopped in front of me, and looked in silence into my eyes. He shook back his head, as if he had come to a supreme decision, placed one hand on my shoulder, and held his beard with the other.
“Why not?” he asked, and then sat down beside me.
“That is not worthily said, Kyrie Selaka,” I could not help exclaiming, reproachfully.
“I see. You think I should ask ‘why’ rather than ‘why not,’” said Selaka, smiling softly. “And you are right; it is ‘why?’”