"Thank you, I prefer the chords."
Sinclair straightened himself, and the buzz of conversation instantly ceased. Then his voice rolled forth to the slow, solemn air, words as melodious as the notes of the music. At their first sound the consul's head ducked below the level of the piano, which hid him from most in the room. Sinclair gave him a vicious dig in the ribs, but sang on without the quiver of an eyelid. The full vowel sounds of the unknown language brought out to perfection the tones of his rich bass voice.
His eyes glanced around the room. All were listening intently, and all, save Commander Gardenier, had their eyes on him. He thought that he could detect a grim smile on the naval officer's averted face. Miss MacAllister had a keen look—was it a suspicious look?—in her eyes.
Under cover of the applause which followed the consul turned on him:
"You have the nerve to pass a chorus from a Greek tragedy on a company like this for a Red Indian war-song."
"I plead guilty," replied Sinclair. "But I had to do something or be again held up to ridicule as I was at dinner. I thought that you were the only one likely to recognize it and I knew that you would not betray me."
"I acknowledge that you had to do something. For some reason Miss MacAllister seems bound to make game of you. She deserves what you have given her, and I'll not give you away. But it was nervy just the same." And the consul laughed indulgently as he turned away.
Miss MacAllister did not join in the general applause. But when it was done she said gravely:
"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair, for gratifying my whim to hear a song in the Indian language. I had no idea that it would be so beautiful. Thank you very much."
Sinclair's face flushed as he replied: