“That is what we get, Tula, by gathering beauty in distress into our outfit,” sighed Kit. “She seems good foundation for a civil war here. Helen of Troy,–a lady of an eastern clan!–started a war on less, and the cards are stacked against us if they start scrapping. When Mexican gentry begin hostilities, the innocent bystander gets the worst of it,–especially the Americano. So it is just as well the latest Richard in the field does not know whose bullet hit him in the leg, and brought his horse down.”

Tula, who since their entrance to the civilized surroundings of Mesa Blanca, had apparently dropped all initiative, and was simply a little Indian girl under orders, listened impassively to this curious monologue. She evidently thought white people use many words for a little meaning.

“The Deliverer says will you graciously come?” she stated for the second time.

“Neither graciously, gracefully or gratefully, but I’ll arrive,” he conceded. “His politeness sounds ominous. It is puzzling why I, a mere trifle of an American ranch hand, should be given audience instead of his distinguished lieutenant.”

“Isidro and Clodomiro are talking much with him, and the man Marto is silent, needing no guard,” said Tula.

“Sure,–Rotil has the whole show buffaloed. Well, let’s hope, child, that he is not a mind reader, for we have need of all the ore we brought out, and can’t spare any for revolutionary subscriptions.”

Kit followed Tula into the sala where a rawhide cot had been placed, and stretched on it was the man of Yaqui Spring.

One leg of his trousers was ripped up, and there was the odor of a greasewood unguent in the room. Isidro was beside him, winding a bandage below the knee. A yellow silk banda around the head of Rotil was stained with red.

But he had evidently been made comfortable, for he was rolling a cigarette and was calling Isidro “doctor.” Two former vaqueros of Mesa Blanca were there, and they nodded recognition to Kit. Rotil regarded him with a puzzled frown, and then remembered, and waved his hand in salute.

“Good day, señor, we meet again!” he said. “I am told that you are my host and the friend of Señor Whitely. What is it you do here? Is it now a prison, or a hospital for unfortunates?”

“Only a hospital for you, General, and I trust a serviceable one,” Kit hastened to assure him. “More of comfort might have been yours had you sent a courier to permit of preparation.”

“The service is of the best,” and Rotil pointed to Isidro. “I’ve a mind to take him along, old as he is! The boys told me he was the best medico this side the range, and I believe it. As to courier,” and he grinned, “I think you had one, if you had read the message right.”

“The surprises of the night were confusing, and a simple man could not dare prophesy what might follow,” said Kit, who had drawn up a chair and easily fell into Rotil’s manner of jest. “But I fancy if that courier had known who would follow after, he would have spent the night by preference at Soledad.”

“Sure he would,–hell’s fire shrivel him! That shot of his scraped a bone for me, and put my horse out of business. For that reason we came on quietly, and these good fellows listened at the window of Marto before they carried me in. It is a good joke on me. My men rounded up Perez and his German slaver at Soledad today–yesterday now!–and when we rode up the little cañon to be in at the finish what did we see but an escape with a woman? Some word had come my way of a Perez woman there, and only one thought was with me, that the woman had helped Perez out of the trap as quickly as he had ridden into it! After that there was nothing to do but catch them again. No thought came to me that Marto might be stealing a woman for himself, the fool! Perez made better time than we figured on, and is a day ahead. Marto meant to hide the woman and get back in time. It’s a great joke that an Americano took the woman from him. I hope she is worth the trouble,” and he smiled, lifting his brows questioningly.

“So that was the ‘trap’ that Marto raved and stormed to get back to?” remarked Kit. “I am still in the dark, though there are some glimmers of light coming. If Marto knew of that trap it explains–”

“There were three others of my men on the Soledad rancho, drawing pay from Perez. It is the first time that fox came in when we could spread the net tight. To get him at another place would not serve so well, for if Soledad was the casket of our treasure, at Soledad we make a three strike,–the cattle, the ammunition, and Perez there to show the hiding place! It is the finish of four months’ trailing, and is worth the time, and but for Marto running loco over a girl, there would have been a beautiful quiet finish at Soledad ranch house last night.”

“But, if your men have Perez–”

“Like that!” and Rotil stretched out his open hand, and closed it significantly, with a cruel smile in his black, swift-glancing eyes. “This time there is no mistake. For over a week men and stout mules have been going in;–it is a conducta and it is to take the ammunition. Well, señor, it is all well managed for me; also we have much need of that ammunition for our own lads.”

“And it was done without a fight?” asked Kit. “I have heard that the men picked for Soledad were not the gentlest band Señor Perez could gather.”

“We had their number,” said Rotil placidly. “Good men enough, but with their cartridges doctored what could they do? I sent in two machine guns, and they were not needed. A signal smoke went up to show me all was well, and in another minute I heard the horses of Marto and his girl. He must have started an hour before Perez arrived. It is a trick of Don José’s that no one can count on his engagements, but this time every hill had its sentinels for his trail, not anything was left to chance.”

“And your accident?” asked Kit politely.

“Oh, I was setting my own guards at every pass when the runaway woman and men caught my ear and we took a short cut down the little cañon to head them off. I knew they would make for here, and that houses were not plenty–” he smiled as if well satisfied with the knowledge. “So, as this was a friendly house it would be a safe bet to keep on coming.” He blew rings of smoke from the cigarette, and chuckled.

“The boys will think a quicksand has swallowed us, and no one will be sleeping there at Soledad.”

“Is there anything I can do to be of service,” asked Kit. “I have a good room and a bed–”

But the chuckling of Rotil broke into a frank laugh.

“No, señor!” he said with humorous decision, watching Kit as he spoke, “already I have been told of your great kindness in the giving of beds and rooms of comfort. Why, with a house big enough, you could jail all the district of Altar! Not my head for a noose!”

Kit laughed awkwardly at the jest which was based on fact, but he met the keen eyes of Rotil very squarely.

“The Indians no doubt told you the reason the jail was needed?” he said. “If a girl picks a man to take a trail with, that is her own affair and not mine, but if a girl with chains on her wrists has to watch men throwing dice for her, and is forced to go with the winner–well–the man who would not help set her free needs a dose of lead. That is our American way, and no doubt is yours, señor.”

“Sure! Let a woman pick her own, if she can find him!” agreed Rotil, and then he grinned again as he looked at Kit. “And, señor, it is a safe bet that this time she’ll find him!–you are a good big mark, not easily hidden.”

The other men smiled and nodded at the humor of their chief, and regarded Kit with appreciative sympathy. It was most natural of course for them to suppose that if he took a woman from Marto, he meant to win her for himself.

Kit smiled back at them, and shook his head.

“No such luck for a poor vaquero,” he confessed. “The lady is in mourning, and much grief. She is like some saint of sorrows in a priest’s tale, and–”

“The priests are liars, and invented hell,” stated Rotil.

“That may be, but sometimes we see sad women of prayers who look like the saints the priests tell about,–and to have such women sold by a gambler is not good to hear of.”

No one spoke for a little. The eyes of Rotil closed in a curious, contemptuous smile.

“You are young, boy,” he said at last, “and even we who are not so young are often fooled by women. Trust any woman of the camp rather than the devout saints of the shrines. All are for market,–but you pay most for the saint, and sorrow longest for her. And you never forget that the shrine is empty!”

His tone was mocking and harsh, but Kit preferred to ignore the sudden change of manner for which there seemed no cause.

“Thanks for the warning, General, and no saints for me!” he said good naturedly. “Now, is there any practical thing I can do to add to your comfort here? Any plans for tomorrow?”

“A man of mine is already on the way to Soledad, and we will sleep before other plans are made. Not even Marto will I see tonight, knowing well that you have seen to his comfort!” and he chuckled again at the thought of Marto in his luxurious trap. “My lads will do guard duty in turn, and we sleep as we are.”

“Then, if I can be of no service–”

“Tomorrow perhaps, not tonight, señor. Some sleep will do us no harm.”

“Then good night, and good rest to you, General.”

“Many thanks, and good night, Don Pajarito.”

Kit laughed at that sally, and took himself out of the presence. It was plain that the Deliverer had obtained only the most favorable account of Kit as the friend of Whitely. And as an American lad who sang songs, and protected even women he did not know, he could not appear formidable to Rotil’s band, and certainly not in need of watching.

He looked back at them as the general turned on his side to sleep, and one of his men blew out the two candles, and stationed themselves outside the door. As he noted the care they took in guarding him, and glanced at the heavy doors and barred windows, he had an uncomfortable thrill at the conviction that it would serve as a very efficient prison for himself if his new friends, the revolutionists, ever suspected he held the secret of the red gold of El Alisal. It was a bit curious that the famous lost mine of the old mission had never really been “lost” at all!

Isidro, looking very tired, had preceded him from the sala, as Kit supposed to go to bed. The day and night had been trying to the old man, and already it was the small hours of a new day.

There was a dim light in the room of Doña Jocasta, but no sound. Tula was curled up on a blanket outside her door like a young puppy on guard. He stooped and touched her shoulder.

“The señora?” he whispered.

“Asleep, after tears, and a sad heart!” she replied. “Valencia thanks the saints that at last she weeps,–the beautiful sad one!”

“That is well; go you also to sleep. Your friends keep guard tonight.”

She made no reply, and he passed on along the corridor to his own rooms. The door was open, and he was about to strike a light when a hand touched his arm. He drew back, reaching for his gun.

“What the devil–”

“Señor,” whispered Isidro, “make no light, and make your words in whispers.”

“All right. What’s on your mind?”

“The señora and the Deliverer. Know you not, señor, that she is sick with shame? It is so. No man has told him who the woman is he calls yours. All are afraid, señor. It is said that once Ramon Rotil was content to be a simple man with a wife of his own choosing, but luck was not his. It was the daughter of a priest in the hills, and José Perez took her!”

“Ah-h!” breathed Kit. “If it should be this one–”

“It is so,–she went like a dead woman at his voice, but he does not know. How should he, when Don José has women beyond count? Señor, my Valencia promised Doña Jocasta you would save her from meeting the general. That promise was better than a sleeping drink of herbs to her. Now that the promise is made, how will you make it good?”

“Holy smoke–also incense–also the pipe!” muttered Kit in the dark. “If I live to get out of this muddle I’ll swear off all entangling alliances forevermore! Come into the kitchen where we can have a fire’s light. I can’t think in this blackness.”

They made their way to the kitchen, and started a blaze with mesquite bark. The old Indian cut off some strips of burro jerke and threw them on the coals.

“That is better, it’s an occupation anyway,” conceded Kit chewing with much relish. “Now, Isidro, man, you must go on. You know the land best. How is one to hide a woman of beauty from desert men?”

“She may have a plan,” suggested Isidro.

“Where is Clodomiro?” asked Kit, suddenly recalling that the boy had disappeared. The old man did not answer; he was very busy with the fire, and when the question was repeated he shook his head.

“I do not know who went. If Tula did not go, then Clodomiro was the one. They were talking about it.”

“Talking,–about what?”

“About the German. He is caught at Soledad, and must not be let go, or let die. All the Indians of Palomitas will be asking the Deliverer for that man.”

“Isidro, what is it they want to do with him?” asked Kit, and the old Indian ceased fussing around with a stick in the ashes, and looked up, sinister and reproving.

“That, señor, is a question a man does not ask. If my woman tells me the women want a man for Judas, I–get that man! I ask nothing.”

“Good God! And that child, Tula–” began Kit in consternation, and old Isidro nodded his head.

“It is Tula who asked. She is proving she is a woman; Clodomiro goes for her because that is his work. Your white way would be a different way,–of an alcalde and the word of many witness. Our women have their own way, and no mistake is made.”

“But Rotil, the general,–he will not permit–”

“Señor, for either mother or grandmother the general had an Indian woman. He has the knowing of these things. I think Tula gets the man they ask for. She is wise, that child! A good woman will be chosen to have speech with the Deliverer–when they come.”

“There is a thought in that,” mused Kit, glancing sharply at the old man. “Do they make choice of some wise woman, to be speaker for the others? And they come here?”

“That is how it is, señor.”

“Then, what better way to hide Doña Jocasta than to place her among Indian women who come in a band for that task? Many women veil and shroud their heads in black as she does. The music of her voice was dulled when she spoke to Marto, and General Rotil had no memory of having ever heard it. Think,–is there to be found an old dress of your wife? Can it be done and trust no one? Doña Jocasta is clever when her fear is gone. With Tula away from that door the rest is easy. The dawn is not so far off.”

“Dawn is the time the women of Palomitas will take the road,” decided Isidro, “for by the rising time of the sun the Deliverer has said that his rest here is ended, and he goes on to Soledad where José Perez will have a trembling heart of waiting.”

“Will they tell him whose trap he is caught in?”

“Who knows? The Deliverer has plans of his own making. It was not for idleness he was out of sight when the trap was sprung. He sleeps little, does Ramon Rotil!”

In a mesquite tree by the cook house chickens began to crow a desultory warning. And Isidro proceeded to subtract stealthily a skirt and shawl from wooden pegs set in the adobe wall where Valencia slept. She startled him by stirring, and making weary inquiry as to whether it was the time.

“Not yet, my treasure, that fighting cock of Clodomiro crows only because of a temper, and not for day. It is I will make the fire and set Maria to the grinding. Go you to your sleep.”

Which Valencia was glad to do, while her holiday wardrobe, a purple skirt bordered with green, and a deeply fringed black shawl, was confiscated for the stranger within their gates.

Thrusting the bundle back of an olla in the corridor he touched Tula on the shoulder.

“The señor waits you in the kitchen,” he muttered in the Indian tongue, and she arose without a word, and went silent as a snake along the shadowy way.

It took courage for Isidro to enter alone the room of Doña Jocasta, as that was the business of a woman. But Kit had planned that, if discovered, the girl should apparently have no accomplices. This would protect Tula and Valencia should Rotil suspect treachery if an occupant of the house should disappear. It would seem most natural that a stolen woman would seek to escape homeward when not guarded, and that was to serve as a reasonable theory.

She slept with occasional shuddering sighs, as a child after sobbing itself to sleep. That sad little sound gave the old Indian confidence in his errand. It might mean trouble, but she had dared trouble ere now. And there could not be continual sorrow for one so beautiful, and this might be the way out!

She woke with a startled cry as he shook her bed, but it was quickly smothered as he whispered her name.

“It is best you go to pray in the chapel room, and meet there the women of Palomitas. Others will go to pray for a Judas; among many you may be hidden.”

She patted his arm, and arose in the dark, slipping on her clothes. He gave her the skirt and she donned that over her own dress. Her teeth were chattering with nervous excitement, and when she had covered herself with the great shawl, her hand went out gropingly to him to lead her.

As they did not pass the door of the sala, no notice was given them by Rotil’s guard. Mexican women were ever at early prayers, or at the metate grinding meal for breakfast, and that last possibility was ever welcome to men on a trail.

In the kitchen Kit Rhodes was seeking information concerning Clodomiro from Tula, asking if it was true he would fetch the women of Palomitas to petition Rotil.

“Maybe so,” she conceded, “but that work is not for a mind of a white man. Thus I am not telling you Clodomiro is the one to go; his father was what you call a priest,–but not of the church,” she said hastily, “no, of other things.”

Looking at her elfin young face in the flickering light of the hearth fire, he had a realization of vast vistas of “other things” leading backward in her inherited tendencies, the things known by his young comrade but not for the mind of a white man,–not even for the man whom Miguel had trusted with the secret of El Alisal. Gold might occasionally belong to a very sacred shrine, but even sacred gold was not held so close in sanctuary as certain ceremonies dear to the Indian thought. Without further words Kit Rhodes knew that there were locked chambers in the brain of his young partner, and to no white man would be granted the key.

“Well, since he has gone for them, there is nothing to say, though the general may be ill pleased at visitors,” hazarded Kit. “Also you and I know why we should keep all the good will coming our way, and risk none of it on experiments. Go you back to your rest since there is not anything to be done. Clodomiro is at Palomitas by now, and you may as well sleep while the dawn is coming.”

She took the strip of roasted meat he offered her, and went back to her blanket on the tiles at the door of the now empty room.

CHAPTER XV
THE “JUDAS” PRAYER AT MESA BLANCA

Isidro was right when he said Ramon Rotil slept but little, for the very edge of the dawn was scarce showing in the east when he opened his eyes, moved his wounded leg stiffly, and then lay there peering between half-shut eyelids at the first tint of yellow in the sky.

“Chappo,” he said curtly, “look beyond through that window. Is it a band of horses coming down the mesa trail, or is it men?”

“Neither, my General, it is the women who are left of the rancherias of Palomitas. They come to do a prayer service at an old altar here. Once Mesa Blanca was a great hacienda with a chapel for the peons, and they like to come. It is a custom.”

“What saint’s day is this?”

“I am not wise enough, General, to remember all;–our women tell us.”

“Um!–saint’s day unknown, and all a pueblo on a trail to honor it! Call Fidelio.”

There was a whistle, a quick tread, and one of the men of Palomitas stood in the door.

“Take two men and search every woman coming for prayers–guns have been carried under serapes.”

“But, General–”

“Search every woman,–even though your own mother be of them!”

“General, my own mother is already here, and on her knees beyond there in the altar room. They pray for heart to ask of you their rights in Soledad.”

“That is some joke, and it is too early in the morning for jokes with me. I’m too empty. What have Palomitas women to do with rights in Soledad?”

“I have not been told,” said Fidelio evasively. “It is a woman matter. But as to breakfast, it is making, and the tortillas already baking for you.”

“Order all ready, and a long stirrup for that leg,” said the general, moving it about experimentally. “It is not so bad, but Marto can ride fasting to Soledad for giving it to me.”

“But, my General, he asks–”

“Who is he to ask? After yesterday, silence is best for him. Take him along. I will decide later if he is of further use–I may–need–a–man!”

There was something deliberately threatening in his slow speech, and the guards exchanged glances. Without doubt there would be executions at Soledad!

Rotil got off the cot awkwardly, but disdaining help from the guards hopped to a chair against the wall between the two windows.

Isidro came in with a bowl of water, and a much embroidered towel for the use of the distinguished guest, followed by a vaquero with smoking tortillas, and Tula with coffee.

The general eyed the ornate drawnwork of the linen with its cobweb fingers, and grinned.

“I am not a bridegroom this morning, muchachita, and need no necktie of such fineness for my beauty. Bring a plainer thing, or none.”

Tula’s eyes lit up with her brief smile of approval.

“I am telling them you are a man and want no child things, my General,” she stated firmly, “and now it proves itself! On the instant the right thing comes.”

She darted out the door, bumping into Rhodes, and without even the customary “with your permission” ran past him along the corridor, and, suddenly cautious, yet bold, she lifted the latch of the guest room where she had seen what looked to her like wealth of towels,–and felt sure Doña Jocasta would not miss one of the plainest.

Stealthy as a cat she circled the bed, scarce daring to glance at it lest the lady wake and look reproach on her.

But she stepped on some hard substance on the rug by the wooden bench where the towels hung, and stooping, she picked it up, a little wooden crucifix, once broken, and then banded with silver to hold it solid. The silver was beautifully wrought and very delicate, surely the possession of a lady, and not a thing let fall by chance from the pocket of Valencia.

Tula turned to lay it carefully on the pillow beside the señora, and then stared at the vacant bed.

Only an instant she halted and thrust her hand under the cover.

“Cold,–long time cold!” she muttered, and with towel and crucifix she sped back to the sala where Rotil was joking concerning the compliment she paid him.

“Don’t make dandies of yourselves if you would make good with a woman,” he said. “Even that little crane of a muchacha has brain,–and maybe heart for a man! She has boy sense.”

Kit, seeing her dart into the guest room, stood in his tracks watching for her to emerge. She gave him one searching curious look as she sped past, and he realized in a flash that his glance should have been elsewhere, or at least more casual.

She delivered the towel and retired, abashed and silent at the jests of the man she regarded with awe as the god-sent deliverer of her people. Once in the corridor she looked into Valencia’s room, then in the kitchen where Valencia and Maria and other women were hastening breakfast, and last she sought Clodomiro at the corral.

“Where did you take her, and how?” she demanded, and the youth, tired with the endless rides and tasks of two days and nights, was surly, and looked his impatience. “She, and she, and she! Always women!” he grumbled. “Have I not herded all of them from over the mesa at your order? Is one making a slow trail, and must I go herding again?”

She did not answer, but looked past him at the horses.

“Which did the señora ride from Soledad?” she inquired, and Clodomiro pointed out a mare of shining black, and also a dark bay ridden by Marto.

“Trust him to take the best of the saddle herd,” he remarked. “Why have you come about it? Is the señora wanting that black?”

“Maybe so; I was not told,” she answered evasively. “But there is early breakfast, and it is best to get your share before some quick task is set,–and this day there are many tasks.”

The women were entering the portal at the rear, because the chapel of the old hacienda was at the corner. There was considerable commotion as Fidelio enforced the order to search for arms;–if the Deliverer suspected treachery, how could they hope for the sympathy they came to beg for?

“Tell him there is nothing hidden under our rags but hearts of sorrow,” said the mother of Fidelio. “Ask that he come here where we kneel to give God thanks that El Aleman is now in the power of the Deliverer.”

“General Rotil does not walk, and there is no room for a horse in this door. Someone of you must speak for the others, and go where he is.”

The kneeling women looked at each other with troubled dark eyes.

“Valencia will be the best one,” said an old woman. “She lost no one by the pale beast, but she knows us every one. Marta, who was wife of Miguel, was always mother and spoke for us to the padre, or anyone, but Marta–”

She paused and shook her head; some women wept. All knew Marta was one who cried to them for vengeance.

“That is true,” said Valencia. “Marta was the best, but the child of Marta is here, and knows more than we. She has done much,–more than many women. I think the daughter can speak best for the mother, and that the Deliverer will listen.”

Tula had knelt like the others, facing a little shelf on the wall where a carven saint was dimly illuminated by the light of a candle. All the room was very dark, for the dawn was yet but as a gray cloak over the world, and no window let in light.

The girl stood up and turned toward Valencia.

“I will go,” she said, “because it is my work to go when you speak, but the Deliverer will ask for older tongues and I will come back to tell you that.”

Without hesitation she walked out of the door, and the others bent their heads and there was the little click-click of rosary beads, slipping through their fingers in the dusk. Among the many black-shawled huddled figures kneeling on the hard tiles, none noticed the one girl in the corner where shadows were deepest, and whose soft slender hands were muffled in Valencia’s fringes.

Kit stood until he noted that the searching for arms did not include her, and then crossed the patio with Fidelio on his way to the corrals. If the black mare of Doña Jocasta could be gotten to the rear portal, together with the few burros of the older women, she might follow after unnoticed. The adobe wall at the back was over ten feet high and would serve as a shield, and the entire cavalcade would be a half mile away ere they came in range from the plaza.

He planned to manage that the mare be there without asking help of any Indian, and he thought he could do it while the guard was having breakfast. It would be easy for them to suppose that the black was his own. Thus scheming for beauty astray in the desert, he chatted with Fidelio concerning the pilgrimage of the Palomitas women, and the possibility of Rotil’s patience with them, when Tula crossed the patio hurriedly and entered the door of the sala.

The general was finishing his breakfast, while Isidro was crouched beside him rewinding the bandage after a satisfactory inspection of the wound. The swelling was not great, and Rotil, eating cheerfully, was congratulating himself on having made a straight trail to the physician of Mesa Blanca; it was worth a lost day to have the healing started right.

He was in that complacent mood when Tula sped on silent bare feet through the sala portal, and halted just inside, erect against the wall, gazing at him.

“Hola! Niña who has the measure of a man! The coffee was of the best. What errand is now yours?”

“Excellency, it is the errand too big for me, yet I am the one sent with it. They send me because the mother of me, and Anita, my sister, were in the slave drive south, and the German and the Perez men carried whips and beat the women on that trail.”

Her brave young heart seemed to creep up in her throat and choke her at thought of those whips and the women who were driven, for her voice trembled into silence, and she stood there swallowing, her head bent, and her hands crossed over her breast, and clasped firmly there was the crucifix she had found in the guest room. Little pagan that she was, she regarded it entirely as a fetish of much potency with white people, and surely she needed help of all gods when she spoke for the whole pueblo to this man who had power over many lives.

Rotil stared at her, frowning and bewildered.

“What the devil,–” he began, but Isidro looked up at him and nodded assent.

“It is a truth she is telling, Excellency. Her father was Miguel, once major-domo of this rancho. He died from their fight, and his women were taken.”

“Oh, yes, that!–it happens in many states. But this German–who says the German and Perez were the men to do it?”

“I, Tula, child of Miguel, say it,” stated the girl. “With my eyes I saw him,–with my ears I heard the sister call out his name. The name was Don Adolf. Over his face was tied a long beard, so! But it was the man,–the friend of Don José Perez of Soledad; all are knowing that. He is now your man, and the women ask for him.”

“What women?”

“All the women of Palomitas. On their knees in the chapel they make prayers. Excellency, it robs you of nothing that you give them a Judas for Holy Week. I am sent to ask that of the Deliverer.”

She slid down to her knees on the tiles, and looked up at him.