"You accuse me of treason," she cried. "Oh, what injustice, what—"
"I accuse you of nothing, save of having deceived us all, and of being very much déplacée here. The deception shall continue, as far as the others are concerned. You came to us, as a man. You shall go as one. Your secret shall be absolutely respected, by me. But, madam, understand one thing clearly."
"What is that?" she demanded, still trembling with indignation.
"The fact that you are a woman has no weight with me, so far as your persuading me to let you remain of the party may be concerned. Women have never counted in my life. Their wiles, arts, graces, tears, mean nothing to me. Their entreaties seem futile. Their arguments appear like trivial puerilities.
"Other men are sometimes influenced by such. I tell you now, madam, I shall not be. Your entreaties will have no weight. When the time comes for you to leave Nissr, I trust you will go quietly, with no distressing scene."
A certain grimness showed in the woman's face, making it sternly heroic as the face of Medea or Zenobia. She answered:
"Do you think me the type that entreats, that sheds tears, that exercises wiles?"
"We won't discuss your personality, madam! This interview is drawing to an end. Until we reach land, nothing can be done. Nothing, but to look out for your injury. Common humanity demands that your wound be dressed. Is it a serious hurt?"
"Not compared with the hurt you are inflicting, in banishing me from the Flying Legion!"
"Come, madam, refrain from extravagant speeches! What is your wound?"