When she was seated in the cave, Victor stood at the entrance, bowed low, and said:
“I present my homage to the Queen of the Mountains. I am going to leave my gun with you. If you should be in danger, can you use it?”
“All Corsican women understand the use of firearms. You are a sailor and, perhaps, a better marksman than I, but I doubt it. I always win the prize in shooting with my brothers.”
“May Heaven preserve you until we meet again,” were Victor’s last words, and, a moment later, he was running at full speed towards Batistelli Castle.
As he plunged through the forest, occasionally catching his feet in the underbrush and nearly falling headlong, he congratulated himself upon having repressed an avowal of his love for Vivienne until a more opportune moment arrived. He would not have ventured to breathe his love for her, as she lay senseless in his arms, had it not been for an incident which had occurred the day previous. In company with Vivienne, he had walked down the wooded path until they came to the brook beside which she had knelt when she gave him the flower. As they stood there, the scene brought back to him the remembrance of his meeting with Count Mont d’Oro and he, unthinkingly, asked:
“Have you heard from Count Mont d’Oro, to-day, Mademoiselle Batistelli?”
“No. Why should I?” and she fixed her piercing black eyes upon him.
“Oh—I,” he began—“I heard something soon after my arrival which made me think that you would be greatly interested in his condition.”
“What did you hear? Please tell me.”
Victor hesitated. Finally, he said: “Mademoiselle Batistelli, I am a British sailor. Perhaps you have heard that British sailors, as a class, are noted for their frankness and honesty. I will try to be worthy of their well-earned reputation.”