“My thanks to you, and my service, Excellency,” said Tula. “I will go and be glad that I go for that. But I swear by the Body and Blood, and I swear on this, that I only pay the debt of my people to El Aleman.”
She was helping old Tia Tomasa to her feet with one hand, and held up the little crucifix to him with the other. She had noted that white people make oath on a cross when they want to be believed, and she wished with all her pagan heart to be believed by this man who had been a sort of legendary hero to her many months before she had seen his face, or dared hope he would ever grant favor to her––Tula!
But whatever effect she hoped to secure by emphasizing her oath on the Christian symbol, she was not prepared for the rough grasp on her arm, or the harsh command of his voice.
“Holy God!” he growled, “why do you thrust that in my face,––you?”
“Excellency––I––” began Tula, but he shook her as a cat would shake a mouse.
“Answer me! How comes it in your hands?”
“I found it, señor––and did no harm.”
“When? Where?”
“Why––I––I–––”
A note of warning flashed from some wireless across the girl’s mind, for it was no little thing by which Ramon Rotil had suddenly become a growling tiger with his hand near her throat.