“He died two years ago. If he were only here now! We became strong friends. Lentala’s devotion to the islanders is returned by them almost as idolatry. I know how the white blood can love, but I know also how it can hate; and it knows its own.”
He suddenly halted, and wheeled upon me.
“You say,” he moaned, “that some of the white men are at large on the island. What mischief are they doing? What mines digging under me? My people are children,—I have kept them so, God help them! I need not alone a wit and a daring to match the white people’s, but Senatra devotion as well.”
“Your Majesty knows Lentala.”
He blazed on me. “Do you love Lentala?”
A fierce tingling raced through me, and dumbness held me.
“She is beautiful and sweet,” he went on. “She is steadfast; she is brave and able. There never was a woman to match her. You are big and strong and brave. She found you. Like finds like. Do you love her as a man loves a woman?”
I fought blindly for wit and words.
“Yes, Sire,” came the thin, even voice of Christopher.
We both turned in surprise. He beamed on us blandly.