He looked a little sullen, but soon recovered, and broke out in a very rush of gay spirits. In a short time he suddenly became grave.
“I must go,” he said. With a gentle, pleading look at me, he asked: “Won’t you be a Senatra? Christopher will help you.”
“Yes, Beelo,—anything you wish.”
“Very well. I will come every day for—maybe three days, and teach Christopher. You will watch us. When you and Christopher are alone, he will teach you. But you must dress every time as a Senatra!”
“Of course.” My relief was great. For some incomprehensible reason I did not wish the boy to train me, for that would have necessitated a disagreeable loss of dignity before him.
“Good! And in three or four days,”—an oddly embarrassed expression rose in his face,—“would you like to go with me—you and dear old Christopher—to see—the beautiful—the kind—the true—Lentala?” He was mocking.
“Yes!” I answered, and made an effort to catch him; but he darted away, showering a cascade of laughter behind him.
So I was right in supposing that Beelo had been preparing us to penetrate the mysteries beyond the valley ramparts, and lift the veil behind which our fate was hidden.
“Christopher!” I cried in my joy, seizing him by the shoulder; “do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”