“Were they herded in this valley?”
“No.” His answer was firmer. “There was never more than one or a very few at a time.”
I sat silent so long that he looked up, and showed alarm.
“Tell me the truth, lad,” I insisted, holding his eyes. “Where did you learn those words?” A startling suspicion suddenly came. “The gold in your hair, the blue in your eyes, the fine lines of your face,———”
He began to edge away, and I saw flight in him; but I caught his wrist.
“Tell me the truth,” I repeated.
He gazed at me in fear and pleading, but found no yielding, and with provoking indifference shrugged his shoulders and settled down with a pouting, martyr-like resignation.
“You are hurting my wrist,” he remarked.
“Answer me,” I demanded, tightening my grip. “Hasn’t white blood mingled with some of the native blood here?”
His lips were compressed under the pain of my clasp, and an angry resentment steadied his gaze.