“It would seem best to drown you both this evening, before I leave for the fight. The Crooked One has advised that, and his wisdom is great. But I wish to be taught more of your knowledge, so I will let you live until my return.” “But why must we stay here?” I asked. “Would you assist me in defeating your people, if I took you with me?” “No,” said I. He took my hand and touched it lightly to his breast. “What I like in the pale-skins,” he said, “is the truth-tongue. You do not try to deceive me. That is why I have let you live to teach me. From a lying teacher I would gain but little knowledge.” I have said before that this boy was remarkably intelligent for a savage. There was also a nobility in his nature that was admirable and noteworthy. I am no more truthful than the average American, but it was not easy to try to deceive one of so simple and frank a character. From the first I had thought it the best policy to be honest with him. Had the pale-skins always been honest in their dealings with the dark-skinned races many national tragedies would have been averted. We passed several hours in conversation, Joe taking a part in the talk, now and then, but leaving most of it to me. Finally the king withdrew, saying he would not see us again until after his return from the “war.” It was getting dark and we were thinking of going to bed on our benches—which were plentifully supplied with soft blankets—when a sound of slow and dragging footsteps along the corridor aroused us. A light flickered across the doorway and was followed by a native bearing a torch of rottenwood. At once I knew who it was. The shrewd, withered features, iron-gray locks and penetrating glance; the humpbacked frame, long arms and spindle legs could belong to none but the “Crooked One,” of whom the king had spoken. I wondered if he came with his Majesty’s permission, for he shielded the torch with a portion of an ample robe that partially covered his misshapen body and peered at us silently a while before addressing us. Then he said, speaking in a low, soft voice: “Strangers, I am here to assist you. Our mighty King, the wise Attero, has accepted you as his friends; but that will not save you from the death which the law decrees.” He paused impressively, and I asked: “What _will_ save us, then?” “Perhaps nothing at all,” he returned, evasively. “But I am the King’s adviser, even as I was his father’s adviser, and I command all the warriors of Faytan. If King Attero listens to anyone, he will listen to me.” “And you will try to save us?” “If you will do what I am about to ask.” I reflected. “There seems no way to evade the law,” said I. “The law is as old as Faytan, I am told, and demands the death of every stranger landing upon your shores. The King has himself informed us that he is powerless to evade the law, even if he desired to.” The Crooked One smiled sardonically. “Who makes the laws of Faytan?” he demanded.