Читать книгу Lentala of the South Seas: The Romantic Tale of a Lost Colony - W. C. Morrow - Страница 5

Meanwhile, the leader of the savages, a man of commanding size and manner, had been growing more impatient, and was putting his men through some manual that hinted at barbarous proceeding; but when we started he desisted, and met us with urbane gestures. Then ensued a struggle to find a means of communication. Both Captain Mason and I knew something of the Pacific languages, he from a sailor’s experience and I from having fought as a first lieutenant in the Philippines during the war with Spain; but apparently our combined resources failed. Finally we caught a Spanish word and then a German. It remained for Christopher to discover that the embassador spoke some pidgin-English with his tongue and all languages with his gestures. Thus we learned that the gracious King Rangan had sent Gato, commander-in-chief of the army, with an escort of honor to conduit us to the imperial presence.

Captain Mason and I carefully avoided each other’s eyes. The tomb-like mask that Christopher knew how to wear was on his face.

As there were two armed savages to each colonist throat, there was nothing to do but accept. In a dismal procession guarded by the soldiers, we labored through the sand and sank into the scented forest.

After a walk through flagrant aisles of shade and color, we came upon a wide sweep where the undergrowth had been cleared away; in its place was a cluster of huts made of bamboo and thatch. The central space was occupied by one more imposing than the others. The matting curtain at the door was drawn aside after we had been seated before it on the ground, and a sturdy figure, followed by a striking retinue, came forth and took an elevated seat on a platform extending from the house.

The king’s gorgeous robe of a light fabric adorned with feathers and embroidered with gold was worn with a knowledge of its impressiveness. A wide band of gold embedded with gems served for a crown; the blazing scepter and massive wristlets and anklets were of like materials; the ears and fingers flashed with jewels. The royal face was benignant. Gato stepped forth to interpret, as the king’s immediate followers, dressed in long embroidered garments of native texture, ranged about the throne.

The attendant swinging a large feather fan over the king’s head was the only woman discoverable. There was a striking difference between her and the men. It was manifest in a prouder poise of the head, in a look of higher intelligence, and in a finer definition of features. The eagerness with which her glance ran over us, a shyness that struggled with an impulse to a bolder scrutiny, combined with a certain refinement of bearing to set her apart. She was raimented with no less barbaric splendor than the king and his immediate attendants, but in better taste. Her brown bare arms and neck were turned on the graceful lines of youth, and her wrists and hands were small. Her hair, instead of having the glistening blackness of the men’s, housed some of the sun’s gold; and I was startled to discover finally that her eyes were a deep blue.

At last her roving glance was caught and held by me. In her eyes was a moment of hungry inquiry. She caught her breath; a break came in the regular swing of the fan, and her eyelids drooped.

My fascinated attention to her was diverted by a deep rumble. King Rangan was speaking.