Stand back, take your gun, and shoot
me this dog, here beside his grave."
The Princess stepped forward. "Stephanu," she said quietly,
"you will put down that gun."
Her brother rounded on her with a curse. For the moment she did not
heed, but kept her eyes on Stephanu, who had stepped back with musket
half lifted and finger already moving toward the trigger-guard.
"Stephanu," she repeated, "on my faith as a Corsican, if you raise
that gun an inch--even a little inch--higher, I will never speak to
you again." Then lifting a hand she swung round upon her brother,
whose rage (I thank Heaven) for the moment choked him. "Is it meet,
think you, O brother, for a King of Corsica to kill his hostage?"
"Is it meet, O sister," he snarled, "for you, of all women, to
champion a man--and a foreigner--before my soldiers? Shoot him,
Stephanu!"
Her head went up proudly. "Stephanu will not shoot. And you, my
brother, that are so careful--I sometimes think, so over-careful--of
my honour, for once bethink you that your own deserves attention.
This Englishman placed himself in my hands freely as a hostage.
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