I had his word for that. . . . But she had
pursued with the others. For aught I knew, she herself had fired the
shot.
If she needed help, why was she treating us despitefully--putting
this insult upon me, for example? Why had she used those words of
hate? They had been passionate words, too; spoken from the heart in
an instant of surprise. Then, again, to suppose her a friend of the
Genoese was impossible. But why, if not a friend of the Genoese, was
she a foe of their foes? Why had she taken to the _macchia_ with
these men? Why were they keeping watch on the coast while careless
that their watchfire showed inland for leagues? Why, if she were a
patriot, had the sight of King Theodore's crown awakened such scorn
and yet rage against me, its bearer? Why again, at the mere word
that my father sought the Queen Emilia, had she let him pass on,
while redoubling her despite against me?
On top of these puzzles Nat must needs propound another, that this
girl stood in need of help! Help? From whom?
As my mind ran over these questions, still at every pause the old
rigmarole kept dinning--"Mud won't daub sieve, sieve won't hold
water, water won't wet stone .
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