"For me? But I have this." She tapped the barrel of her gun as she took it from him. "And afterwards—if that is in your mind— afterwards I shall still have Stephanu."
She said it lightly, but it brought all the blood back to his brow and cheek with a rush. Not for many days did I learn the full meaning of the look he turned on her, but for dumb reproach I never saw the like of it on man's face.
Her foot tapped the ground. "Give him the gun," she commanded; and Marc'antonio thrust it into my hands. "Now turn your back and walk to that first tree yonder, very slowly, pace by pace, as you hear me count."
Her face was set like a flint, her tone relentless. Marc'antonio half raised his two fists, clenching them for a moment, but dropped them by his side, turned his back, and began to walk obediently towards the tree.
"One—two—three—four—five," she counted, and paused. "Englishman, this fellow has killed your friend, and you claim yourself worthy to be King of Corsica. Prove it."
"Excuse me, Princess," said I, "but before that I have some other things to prove, of which some are easy and others may be hard and tedious."
"Seven—eight—nine." With no answer, but a curl of the lip, she resumed her counting.
"Marc'antonio!" I called—he had almost reached the tree.
"Come here!"
He faced about, his eyes starting, his cheeks blanched. As he drew nearer I saw that his forehead shone with sweat.
"I have a word for you," I said slowly. "In the first place an Englishman does not shoot his game sitting; it is against the rules. Secondly, he is by no means necessarily a fool, but, if it came to shooting against two, he might have sense enough to get his first shot upon the one who held the musket—a point which your mistress overlooked perhaps." I bowed to her gravely. "And thirdly," I went on, hardening my voice, "I have to tell you, Ser Marc'antonio, that this friend of mine, whom you have killed, was not trying to escape you, but running to seek help for the Princess."