His hunt down into me was ruthless, but the hurt there helped me to steady my gaze. “When I fainted——” he began, and stopped, having found my face expressionless. He turned to Christopher, who, giving no attention to us, was setting out the supper on a mat. Beelo’s sharp eyes came back to me.
“Dear little brother,——”
“No, no! Not a word!” he broke in. “I haven’t time, and you are hungry. Come, Choseph!”
He turned me to the supper and forced me to sit on the ground opposite Christopher. It was pleasant to be man-handled by Beelo. His abuse of me was always smoothed by affection. I had no appetite, but who could resist Beelo? He played that I was an invalid and unable to help myself. He patted my cheek, put food into my mouth, chattered nonsense as though I were a baby, and petted me with outrageous condescension. There was nothing to do but melt under his dear absurdities; and when he found me re-established, he kissed me on the forehead and dashed out, calling that he would be back before long.
When he returned he was brilliantly alive. There seemed no end to his vitality.
“It’s glorious!” he cried, seizing Christopher and sending his bulk in a twirl across the hut. “It’s splendid!” he went on, smashing my dignity with boy’s play. “It’s just——” But his breath was gone, and he tumbled in a panting heap on the ground.
“What news, Beelo?” I inquired.
He sat up, but as yet had meager breath for speech.
“Mr. Vancouver—is safe. Doesn’t look very—happy. Hasn’t seen—the king. Oh, no! Lentala,—who is an Angel—and Sweet—and Kind—and Beautiful,—is just dying—to see you. And——”
“Rest a minute,” I interrupted.