Vinson paused, wondering. This woman was obviously one of the enemy; her face and her figure and her dress were unmistakably those of the enemy. Yet instead of being master of the situation as a captor, this girl had tried to commit suicide. There was mystery here and Vinson determined to find it out.
He came forward, still wondering. He took her shoulders and turned her over. Her eyes looked up at him coldly, disdainfully.
From his back pocket Vinson took a handkerchief and reached for her throat to stanch the small flow of blood; Narina struck his hands away.
"What in hell is the idea?" he demanded.
Narina spoke American. "I prefer death," she told him coldly. In her mind was a firm resolve; her body they could break but her mind would remain unharmed.
"Why?" he snapped. He shoved her protecting hands aside and dabbed at the cut on her throat. As he bent over her, a drop of blood fell from his slashed ear onto her arm. Narina looked at it dully. "You'll never make me tell you anything."
Vinson snorted. "Who's going to tell whom what?" he grunted. "Did you call your pals?"
Narina looked up at him. Her mind cleared. She despised him for an enemy, but apparently he was as much confused as she was. There were light-skinned, blond men in her country, and the only things that really identified him as American were his clothing and his use of the American language. Otherwise he might have been one of her own countrymen in captivity, as she was.
"You're American," she said.
He nodded. And that told them both for she would not have mentioned it had she, too, been American.