She held up her two hands, looking at them.  “They are strong,” she said.

“They are small,” he insisted, “and I doubt if they could drag me across this floor.”

For the first time the quiet of her eyes gave way to a warm fire.  “It was hard work,” she said, and the note in her voice gave him warning that he was approaching the dead-line again.  “Bateese says I was a fool for doing it.  And if you saw two of me, or three or four, it doesn’t matter.  Are you through questioning me, M’sieu David?  If so, I have a number of things to do.”

He made a gesture of despair.  “No, I am not through.  But why ask you questions if you won’t answer them?”

“I simply can not.  You must wait.”

“For your husband?”

“Yes, for St. Pierre.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “I raved about a number of things when I was sick, didn’t I?”

“You did, and especially about what you thought happened in the sand.  You called this—­this other person—­the Fire Goddess.  You were so near dying that of course it wasn’t amusing.  Otherwise it would have been.  You see my hair is black, almost!” Again, in a quick movement, her fingers were crumpling the lustrous coils on the crown of her head.

“Why do you say ’almost’?” he asked.

“Because St. Pierre has often told me that when I am in the sun there are red fires in it.  And the sun was very bright that afternoon in the sand, M’sieu David.”

“I think I understand,” he nodded.  “And I’m rather glad, too.  I like to know that it was you who dragged me up into the shade after trying to kill me.  It proves you aren’t quite so savage as—­”

“Carmin Fanchet,” she interrupted him softly.  “You talked about her in your sickness, M’sieu David.  It made me terribly afraid of you—­so much so that at times I almost wondered if Bateese wasn’t right.  It made me understand what would happen to me if I should let you go.  What terrible thing did she do to you?  What could she have done more terrible than I have done?”

“Is that why you have given your men orders to kill me if I try to escape?” he asked.  “Because I talked about this woman, Carmin Fanchet?”

“Yes, it is because of Carmin Fanchet that I am keeping you for St. Pierre,” she acknowledged.  “If you had no mercy for her, you could have none for me.  What terrible thing did she do to you, M’sieu?”

“Nothing—­to me,” he said, feeling that she was putting him where the earth was unsteady under his feet again.  “But her brother was a criminal of the worst sort.  And I was convinced then, and am convinced now, that his sister was a partner in his crimes.  She was very beautiful.  And that, I think, was what saved her.”

He was fingering his unlighted cigar as he spoke.  When he looked up, he was surprised at the swift change that had come into the face of St. Pierre’s wife.  Her cheeks were flaming, and there were burning fires screened behind the long lashes of her eyes.  But her voice was unchanged.  It was without a quiver that betrayed the emotion which had sent the hot flush into her face.