A slight pause; then her voice:
"Come."
He drew aside the tent flaps and entered. She was half reclining on the cot, her back raised by pillows stuffed with sweet grass. Her silk garment, carelessly arranged, had fallen partly open, so that the gleam of her flesh showed tantalizingly here and there. The blood leaped to Kingozi's forehead. She did not alter her pose. Suddenly he realized: of course, she thought him blind!
The embarrassment met his sterner mood in a head-on collision, so that for a moment the impulsive speech failed him. She spoke first.
"That was Winkleman, I suppose," she said. "I did not want to appear. What is decided?"
"Decided?" he stammered, not knowing where to look, but unable to keep his eyes from straying.
"Yes. Is it too late? Can he prevail with this M'tela after all?"
"He is my prisoner; he has given his parole."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, raising herself on her elbow in excitement. The abrupt movement dropped the robe from her shoulder. "You can see!" she cried; and huddled the garment about her in a panic. "You can see!" she repeated amazedly. "How is that? What has happened?"
The words brought him to himself and to his need for definite knowledge.