“Say on, sir.”

“Why, then, your father, sir, practised some economy in telling me the truth.  But my father and I will be content with the Queen Emilia’s simple word.”

As I began this answer I saw the Princess turn away, dropping her hands.  At its conclusion she turned again, but yet irresolutely.

“We will find something less than the Queen Emilia’s word to content you, my friend,” her brother promised, eyeing me and breathing hard.  “Where is the crown, Stephanu?”

“In safe keeping, O Prince.  I beg leave to say, too, that it was I who found it in the Englishmen’s camp and brought it to the Princess.”

“You shall have your reward, my good Stephanu.  You shall put the bearer, too, into safe keeping.  Stand back, take your gun, and shoot me this dog, here beside his grave.”

The Princess stepped forward.  “Stephanu,” she said quietly, “you will put down that gun.”

Her brother rounded on her with a curse.  For the moment she did not heed, but kept her eyes on Stephanu, who had stepped back with musket half lifted and finger already moving toward the trigger-guard.

“Stephanu,” she repeated, “on my faith as a Corsican, if you raise that gun an inch—­even a little inch—­higher, I will never speak to you again.”  Then lifting a hand she swung round upon her brother, whose rage (I thank Heaven) for the moment choked him.  “Is it meet, think you, O brother, for a King of Corsica to kill his hostage?”

“Is it meet, O sister,” he snarled, “for you, of all women, to champion a man—­and a foreigner—­before my soldiers?  Shoot him, Stephanu!”

Her head went up proudly.  “Stephanu will not shoot.  And you, my brother, that are so careful—­I sometimes think, so over-careful—­of my honour, for once bethink you that your own deserves attention.  This Englishman placed himself in my hands freely as a hostage.  From the first, since you force me to say it, I had no liking for him.  Afterwards, when I knew his errand, I hated him for your sake:  I hated him so that in my rage I strained all duty towards a hostage that I might insult him.  Marc’antonio will bear me witness.”

“The Princess is speaking the truth before God,” said Marc’antonio, gravely.  “She made the man a keeper of swine yonder.”  He waved a hand toward the sty.  “And he is, as I understand, a cavalier in his own country.”

“I did more than that,” the Princess went on.  “Having strained the compact, I tempted him to break it—­to shoot me or to shoot Marc’antonio, so that one or other of us might be free to kill him.”

She paused, again with her eyes on Marc’antonio, who nodded.

“And that also is the truth,” he said.  “She put a gun into his hands, that he might kill me for having killed his friend.  I did not understand at the time.”

“A pretty coward!” The young man flung this taunt out at me viciously; but I had enough to do to hold myself steady, there by the grave’s edge, and did not heed him.