The two girls moved forward cautiously, and beside a fire, the blaze of which was carefully concealed by a little wall of stones built round it, they beheld Orso, lying on a pile of heather, and covered with a pilone.  He was very pale, and they could hear his laboured breathing.  Colomba sat down near him, and gazed at him silently, with her hands clasped, as though she were praying in her heart.  Miss Lydia hid her face in her handkerchief, and nestled close against her friend, but every now and then she lifted her head to take a look at the wounded man over Colomba’s shoulder.  Thus a quarter of an hour passed by without a word being said by anybody.  At a sign from the theologian, Brandolaccio had plunged with him into the maquis, to the great relief of Miss Lydia, who for the first time fancied the local colour of the bandits’ wild beards and warlike equipment was a trifle too strong.

At last Orso stirred.  Instantly, Colomba bent over him, and kissed him again and again, pouring out questions anent his wound, his suffering, and his needs.  After having answered that he was doing as well as possible, Orso inquired, in his turn, whether Miss Nevil was still at Pietranera, and whether she had written to him.  Colomba, bending over her brother, completely hid her companion from his sight, and indeed the darkness would have made any recognition difficult.  She was holding one of Miss Nevil’s hands.  With the other she slightly raised her wounded brother’s head.

“No, brother,” she replied.  “She did not give me any letter for you.  But are you still thinking about Miss Nevil?  You must love her very much!”

“Love her, Colomba!—­But—­but now she may despise me!”

At this point Miss Nevil made a struggle to withdraw her fingers.  But it was no easy matter to get Colomba to slacken her grasp.  Small and well-shaped though her hand was, it possessed a strength of which we have already noticed certain proofs.

“Despise you!” cried Colomba.  “After what you’ve done?  No, indeed!  She praises you!  Oh, Orso, I could tell you so many things about her!”

Lydia’s hand was still struggling for its freedom, but Colomba kept drawing it closer to Orso.

“But after all,” said the wounded man, “why didn’t she answer me?  If she had sent me a single line, I should have been happy.”

By dint of pulling at Miss Nevil’s hand, Colomba contrived at last to put it into her brother’s.  Then, moving suddenly aside, she burst out laughing.

“Orso,” she cried, “mind you don’t speak evil of Miss Lydia—­she understands Corsican quite well.”

Miss Lydia took back her hand at once and stammered some unintelligible words.  Orso thought he must be dreaming.

“You here, Miss Nevil?  Good heavens! how did you dare?  Oh, how happy you have made me!”

And raising himself painfully, he strove to get closer to her.

“I came with your sister,” said Miss Lydia, “so that nobody might suspect where she was going.  And then I—­I wanted to make sure for myself.  Alas! how uncomfortable you are here!”