"You never would have done it, though; they'll be on your track by this time."
"That may be. It doesn't alter what you did."
"I offered you a drink, didn't I? It was my only chance to take the horse and the water-bag. I meant to frighten you, but that's all. And now I'm half mad with pain and heat; you'd swear yourself if you were in my shoes; and I can't even feel I've got any on!"
"Nearer, miss—nearer still! Come and stand between me and the sun. Just for a minute! It's burning me to hell!"
Moya took no notice of the word, nor yet of the request.
"Before I do any more for you," said she, "you must tell me the truth."
"I have!"
"Oh, no, you haven't: not the particular truth I want to know. I know it already. Still I mean to hear it from you. It's the truth on quite a different matter; that's what I want," said Moya, and stood over the poor devil as he desired, so that at last the sun was off him, though now he had Moya's eyes instead. "I—I wonder you can't guess—what I've guessed!" she added after a pause.
But she also wondered at something else, for in that pause the blood-stained face had grown ghastlier than before, and Moya could not understand it. The man was so sorely stricken that recapture must now be his liveliest hope: why then should he fear a discovery more or less? And it was quite a little thing that Moya thought she had discovered; a little thing to him, not to her; and she proceeded to treat it as such.