handkerchief
protected her head, its edge drawn straight across her brow in a
fashion that would have disfigured ninety-nine women in a hundred.
But no head-dress availed to disfigure that brow or the young
imperious eyes beneath it.

"Are you a friend of this man?" she asked in Italian.

"He is my best friend," I answered her, in the same language.
"Why have you done this to him?"

She seemed to consider for a moment, thoughtfully, without pity.

"I can talk to you in French if you find it easier," she said, after
a pause.

"You may use Italian," I answered angrily. "I can understand it more
easily than you will use it to explain why you have done this
wickedness."

"He was very foolish," she said. "He tried to run away. And you
were all very foolish to come as you did. We saw your ship while you
were yet four leagues at sea. How have you come here?"

"I came here," answered I, "being led by your hogs, and after
shooting an assassin in disguise of a hog."

"You have killed Giuseppe?"

"I did my best," said I, turning and addressing myself to three
Corsicans who had stepped from the bushes around me. "But whatever
your purpose may be, you have shot my friend here, and he is dying.
If you have hearts, deal tenderly with him, and afterwards we can
talk."

"He says well," said the girl, slowly, and nodded to the three men.
"Lift him and bring him to the camp." She turned to me. "You will
not resist?" she asked.

"I will go with my friend," said I.

"That is good. You may walk behind me," she said, turning on her
heel. "I am glad to have met one who talks in Italian, for the rest
of your friends can only chatter in English, a tongue which I do not
understand. Step close behind me, please; for the way is narrow.
For what are you waiting?"

"To see that my friend is tenderly handled," I answered.

"He is past helping," said she, carelessly. "He behaved foolishly.
You did not stop for Giuseppe, did you?"

"I did not."

"I am not blaming you," said she, and led the way.

CHAPTER XV.

I BECOME HOSTAGE TO THE PRINCESS CAMILLA.

"Silvis te, Tyrrhene, feras agitare putasti?
Advenit qui vestra dies muliebribus armis
Verba redarguerit."
VIRGIL, Aeneid, xi.

Ahead of us, beyond the rises and hollows of the _macchia_, rose a
bare mountain summit, not very tall, the ascent to it broken by
granite ledges, so that from a distance it almost appea