The king turned into the corridor that led to the vaults, and descended the stair. This brought him and the others to the dungeon door. He halted, and Christopher unlocked it. It swung wide. The king and Christopher stood aside, and the men marched in. Christopher closed and locked the door.
“Your Majesty!” I exclaimed; “you surely have not forgotten that Gato——”
“My son,” he calmly answered, “what they have already endured has made the way easier to what they will find in there.”
Without haste the king conducted us back to the chamber in which he had received us, and seated himself ered: on the divan. He was studying us.
He inflated his cheeks and pursed his lips while his goggling eyes roamed, and queer wrinkles came and went in his face.
“The white blood,” he grunted, staring at me. “It accounts for your keenness. The white blood never sleeps. If it is with you, good; if against you,———”
He rose and glared. “Which love you the more, son,” he growled, “the white blood or the brown?”
“Your Majesty sees our color. We came freely and offered our hearts, our arms, and our lives to your Majesty. And it is not forgotten, Sire, that Lentala sent us.”
“I remember.” The growl died in him, and he brightened. With both hands he clutched the edge of the couch. “It takes white blood to fight white blood,” he said. “Did your father tell you that?”
“Not that I recall, Sire.”