She wore a becoming dress that might have suited either a woman or a man; but everything about her spoke of the sweetness and grace that only a lovely woman can have. I was tired of the foolish Beelo sham. We had grown too near for me longer to tolerate that absurd barrier.
“Now for your news, dear Beela,” I asked.
There was the slightest start when she heard that pronunciation of the name, but she did not turn to me at once.
“When the earthquake began,” she said, “I ran to the queen, for such things frighten her dreadfully. After it was over there came the uproar by the servants. I locked the queen’s apartments and kept them out. But their noise frightened her even more than the earthquake, for they battered her doors. It wouldn’t do to admit them. Presently the king came by the private entrance, and although he was badly shaken, the necessity to comfort the queen brought him composure. They are together and quiet now. Then I came to this corridor, where the servants were massed against the door. I could do nothing with them. For a moment I was frightened when the door opened, but when I saw what Christopher’s plan was, I knew that all was safe. I went then and secured the gates opening to the palace grounds.”
“And what’s ahead, Beela?”
“The worst,” she quietly answered, but gave me a slow, mischievous look over that repetition of her feminine name. “We have a little time before the king comes,” she brightly added, “and we need it to rest.” There was a challenge in her glance.
“But the mob is coming!” I protested.
“The king told me that you and Christopher and I should be quiet till it assembles. Then he will come, for you.”
I drew up my stool facing her, took both her hands, and said:
“I have a confession to make, dear friend.”