“Why? Her skin is brown. You would not trust her.” He was closely observing me.
“What difference can her color make!” I impatiently retorted. “Lentala is an angel.”
“But a brown skin means———” A look of horror swept over his face.
“Lentala is beautiful and kind and true. Tell her to come.”
Beelo was silent.
“Why should she not trust me?” I persisted. “How could I harm her?”
The boy, nervously arranging the twigs, spoke rapidly, but did not look up:
“She’s afraid,—not for herself, but her people. They love her. She would never betray them. Suppose she came,—you would be gentle to her; you would tell her she was beautiful and—and all that nonsense. You might try to get her to tell you things. And you would find out how to———Yes, you might come back and plot with your men, and there would be a great fight with my people and many would be killed. That would be terrible.”
I dimly understood at last: Lentala would trust her brother, not herself, in the mysterious plan that she was working out.
Christopher had returned. I beckoned to him to sit with us.