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I had carried Nat forth into the glade before the hut, where the sun
might fall on him temperately, after a torrid day--torrid, that is to
say, on the heights, but in our hollow, pight about with the trees,
the air had clung heavily.
Marc'antonio, an hour earlier than usual, came down the track with a
bundle of linen under his left arm. I did not see that any one
followed him until Nat pulled himself up, clutching at my elbow.
"Princess! Princess!" he cried, and his voice rang shrill towards her
under the boughs. "Help her . . . I cannot--"
His voice choked on that last word as she came forward and stood
regarding him carelessly, coldly, while I wiped the blood and then
the bloody froth from his lips.
"Your friend looks to be in an ill case," she said.
"You have killed him," said I, and looked up at her stonily, as Nat's
head fell back, with a weight I could not mistake, on my arms.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FIRST CHALLENGE.

"The remedye agayns Ire is a vertu that men clepen Mansuetude,
that is Debonairetee; and eek another vertu, that men callen
Patience or Suffrance.


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