"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 appeared to be terraced. 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."