"That's impossible," said Winthrop, briefly.
"'Twon' be more'n de edge of de ebenin', den, marse," said Bartolo, with his affable optimism.
"Be off, in any case; the sooner you are back, the more dimes you will have."
Bartolo flung himself in a heap upon the saddle, disentangling his legs after the horse was in motion; then, his bare feet dangling and flapping without use of the stirrup, he galloped across the barren, not by the road, but taking a shorter cut he knew. Winthrop stood watching him out of sight; but he could not see far, as the light was nearly gone.
"Now make a fire," said Garda.
"Don't you think you could walk on—if we should go very slowly? We might shorten the distance by a mile or two."
"I don't think I could take a step. These slippers are tightening every minute, in the wrong places; they hurt me even as I sit still."
"Try my shoes."
"I couldn't carry them, my feet would slip out at the top."
This was true; her little feet looked uselessly small, now that they were needed for active service. "You are very inconvenient," he said, smiling.