On a heathery slope at the foot of the first terrace the
Corsicans set down poor Nat and spoke a word to their mistress, who
presently halted and exchanged a few sentences with them in _patois_;
whereupon they stepped back a few paces into the _macchia_, and,
having quickly cut a couple of ilex-staves, fell to plaiting them
with lentisk, to form a litter.
While this was doing I stepped back to my friend's side. His eyes
were closed; but he breathed yet, and his pulse, though faint, was
perceptible. A little blood--a very little--trickled from the corner
of his mouth. I glanced at the girl, who had drawn near and stood
close at my elbow.
"Have you a surgeon in your camp?" I asked. "I believe that a
surgeon might save him yet."
She shook her head. I could detect no pity in her eyes; only a touch
of curiosity, half haughty and in part sullen.
"I doubt," she answered, "if you will find a surgeon in all Corsica.
I do not believe in surgeons."
"Then," said I, "you have not lived always in Corsica."
Her face flushed darkly, even while the disdain in her eyes grew
colder, more guarded.
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