“Christopher!” she cried, “the fire isn’t made yet;” but there was no chiding in her rosy smile.
“No, ma’am,” he answered, rising, but standing still.
“Go and make it now, please,” she said.
“All well, Christopher?” I asked, low.
His slow nod held a doubt. There was always in Christopher’s manner a suggestion that speech was largely a silly indulgence, and that animals other than human beings made themselves intelligible without it.
He fetched a delicious drink which he had made from wild fruit, and served Annabel with quite an air. Her voice carried music in its thanks.
Annabel bubbled with raillery and chatter. Presently my anxious ear heard a stir within. I knew that the man nursing his hurt in the dusk was aware of the invasion, and that he understood and resented my ruse in bringing Annabel to disarm him.
“Christopher,” she said, handing him the calabash from which she had drunk, “please go and make the fire and start the supper. After that, find father; ask him to come here for me.”
Christopher mutely interrogated me, and I nodded. He shambled away.
“Come out and join us, Captain Mason!” I called.