Again there was a silence in the court, while the spectators gaped in pure astonishment. The three men by the door scowled in an ugly fashion. Sam himself was surprised by her candour. He looked at her suspiciously, wondering what she was preparing for him.

Coulson regretted his sympathy. "What do you mean?" he demanded sharply. "Is this a joke?"

Bela shook her head. "I tie him up and tak' him away lak he say."

"Then what is all this about? What did you do it for?" asked the policeman.

This was the question Bela dreaded. A stubborn look came over her face. "He is my friend," she said. "I hear those ot'er men say they hate him. Say they goin' kill him and n.o.body know. I t'ink if I tell Sam that, he jus' laugh. So I got tak' him away myself to save him."

The white spectators leaned forward, mystified and breathlessly attentive. Here was a brand-new story which did not fit any of the time-honoured court-room situations. The bishop looked sad. He suspected from her face that she was lying. Jack, Shand, and Joe could not contain their angry exclamations.

"It's a lie!" cried Jack. "The cook was nothing to us, neither one way or the other. Of course, after we thought he carried her off, we were sore, naturally."

"She's just trying to shield him now!" cried Joe furiously.

"Well, I can't hold him if she doesn't want him held," said Coulson.

"She told me yesterday she wanted him punished," insisted Jack.

"One moment," said Coulson. "I'll get to the bottom of this." He returned to Bela with a severe air. "Is that true?"

"Yes; I tell him that," admitted Bela.

"What did you do that for?"

"He"--pointing to Sam--"run away from me." Here the spectators smiled.

"I not strong enough to catch him. So I mak' them catch him. I mak'

them bring him to the police so all is known. They cannot hurt him if all is known."

The bishop, watching Bela, was sadly puzzled. Poor Bela herself, if he had known, was confused between the truths and the untruths.

"Why should they want to hurt him?" demanded Coulson.

"I don' know." Here she was evasive again.

"What were you doing in their camp in the first place?" he asked.

"I jus' travellin'," said Bela.

"But you stayed there long enough to make friends. How long were you there?"

"Three--four days."

"What did you stay for?"

"Not'ing," said Bela sullenly.

"That's no answer. You must have known the risks a girl ran in a camp of men."

"I tak' care of myself all right."

"Answer my question," he insisted. "What did you stay there for?"

"I not stay in their house," she parried.

"Never mind that. What did you stay around there for?"

Bela was cornered. True to her wild nature, her eyes turned desirously toward the open door. The bishop laid a hand on her arm.

"Tell the truth, my daughter," he said gently. "No one shall harm you."

Bela turned to him. "I am 'mos' white," she explained, as if he were the only reasonable person present. "I lak be wit' white people."

Here a t.i.tter pa.s.sed over the native audience at what they considered her presumption. Bela's eyes flashed scorn on them. She forgot her terrors.

"I am not one of these!" she cried. "I am white! I want marry a white man!"

An odd start of surprised laughter escaped the white spectators. They glanced at each other to make sure they had heard aright.

"Oh!" cried Coulson. "Now we're getting down to it. The prisoner here was the one you picked out?"

"Yes!" answered Bela defiantly. "He is the best man."

"Well----" exclaimed Coulson.

Suddenly the richness of the situation broke on the spectators, and a gale of laughter swept through the room.

The bishop laughed, too, though he patted Bela's arm encouragingly. At least, she was telling the truth now. It was too extraordinary to be otherwise.

Only the three men by the door did not laugh. With eyes full of hate, they glared at the girl and at the prisoner.

Big Jack, the most astute of the three, was the first to recover himself. It occurred to him that unless the rest of the story were prevented from coming out, their humiliation would be complete and abject.

With a glance of warning at his companions, he threw back his head and laughed louder than any. Shand and Joe, comprehending, followed suit.

Their laughter had a bitter ring, but in a gale of laughter the difference pa.s.sed unnoticed.

The prisoner turned white to his lips. He preserved an unnatural calmness. Only his wild, pained eyes betrayed the blinding, maddening rage that was consuming him.

Bela, whose eyes were only for him, turned pale to match. "Sam," she whispered imploringly.

"Cut me loose," he said thickly.

She looked about her. One pa.s.sed her a knife, with which she cut his bonds, all the time searching his face with her terrified eyes, seeking to discover what he meant to do.

"I suppose I am free to go," he said stiffly to Coulson.

"Sure!" answered the policeman. He was kindly now--grateful, indeed, for the magnificent joke which had been provided.