If Blanca were chosen, the toilers would be appeased. She was one of them. She would lead this king from his profligate ways, would win from him justice for the workers.
But Derek and Hope both knew that the pure and gentle Blanca would never be the king's choice. And to-night the toilers would definitely know it, and the smoldering revolt would burst into flame.
And there was this Rohbar. Derek said, "He is the king's henchman, Charlie."
I stood here in the starlight, listening to them. This strange primitive realm. There were no modern weapons here. We had brought none. The current used in our transition would have exploded the cartridges of a revolver. I had a dirk which Hope now gave me, and that was all.
Primitive intrigue. I envisaged this chaotic nation, with its toilers ignorant as the oppressed Mexican peons at their worst. Striving to better themselves, yet, not knowing how. Ready to shout for any leader who might with vainglorious words set himself up as a patriot.
This Rohbar, perhaps, was planning to do just that.
And so was Derek! He said, "Hope, if you could persuade the king to postpone the festival--if Blanca would help persuade him--just until to-morrow night...."
"I can try, Derek. But the festival is planned for an hour or two from now."
"In his palace, near the festival gardens."
She gestured to the south. My mind went back to New York City. This hillock, where we were standing in the starlight beside a tree, was in my world about Fifth Avenue and Sixteenth Street. The king's palace--the festival gardens--stood down at the Battery, where the rivers met in the broad water of the harbor.
Derek was saying, "We haven't much time: can you get us to the palace?"
"Yes. I have a cart down there on the road."
"Good!" said Derek. "We'll go with you. It's a long chance; he probably won't postpone it. If he does not, we'll be among the audience. And when he chooses the Red Sensua--"
She shuddered, "Oh, Derek--" And I thought I heard her whisper, "Oh, Alexandre--" and I saw his finger go to his lips.
His arm went around her. She huddled, small as a child against his tall, muscular body.
He said gently, "Don't be afraid, little Hope."
His face was grim, his eyes were gleaming. I saw him suddenly as an instinctive military adventurer. An anachronism in our modern New York City. Born in a wrong age. But here in this primitive realm he was at home.