"She'll live, Martino, she'll live and all by reason o' her love for you—the promise you made her—"
"I made no promise, man!"
"Why, 'twas good as promise, comrade."
"How so?"
"'Wouldst ha' me live,' says she, 'to plague you again,' says she. 'Aye, that would I indeed,' says you! And what's that but a promise, Martin?"
"God forgive you!" quoth I. "'Twas no promise I intended, as you very well know."
"Why, as to that, comrade, how if Joanna think as I think?"
"'Twill be vain folly!" quoth I in petulant anger and strode away, leaving him to scowl after me, chin in hand.
Howbeit (and despite my anger) I presently took such tools as we had and set about making a small hut or rather bower, where an invalid might find such privacy as she wished and yet have benefit of the pure, sweet air rather than lie mewed in the stifling heat of the little cave. And presently, as I laboured, to me cometh Resolution full of praise for my handiwork and with proffer of aid. At this I turned to him face to face.
"Did I make Joanna any promise, aye or no?" I demanded.