"In hate or in love, cavalier?" Marc'antonio's voice shook with his whole body.
"That shall be my secret," answered I. (Yet well I knew what the answer was, and had known it since the moment she had bent over me in the sty, filing at my chain.) "It had better be hate—eh, Marc'antonio?—seeing that for some reason she hates all men, except you, perhaps, and Stephanu, and her brother."
"We do not count, I and Stephanu. Her brother she adores. But the rest of men she hates, cavalier, and with good cause."
"Then it had better be hate?"
"Yes, yes"—and there was appeal in his voice—"it had a thousand times better be hate, could such a miracle happen." He peered into my eyes for a moment, and shook his head. "But it is not hate, cavalier; you do not deceive me. And since it is not—"
"Well?"
"It were better for you—far better—that Giuse had died of the wound you gave him."
"Why, what on earth has Giuse to do with this matter?" I demanded.
Indeed I had all but forgotten Giuse's existence.
"Only this; that had Giuse died, they would have killed you out of hand in vendetta."
"You are an amiable race, you Corsicans!"