“Because he has killed Giuseppe,” she answered simply.

“Giuseppe?  He has slain Giuseppe?” The simultaneous cry went up in a wail, and by impulse the hand of each one moved to his knife.

“Your pardon, principessa—­” began one black-avised bandit, dropping the haft of his knife and feeling for the gun at his back.

She waived him aside and turned to me.  “I should warn you, sir, that we are of one clan here, though I may not tell you our name; and against the slayer of one it is vendetta with us all.  But I spare you until your father arrives.”

“I thank you,” answered I, feeling blue, but fetching up my best bow.  (Here was a pleasant prospect!) “I only beg to observe that I killed this man—­if I have killed him—­in self-defence,” I added.

“Do you wish me to repeat that as your plea?” she asked, half in scorn.

“I do not,” said I, with a sudden rush of anger.  “Moreover, I dare say that these savages of yours would see no distinction.”

“You are right,” she replied carelessly, “they would see no distinction.”

“But excuse me, principessa,” persisted the scowling man, “a feud is a feud, and if he has slain our Giuse—­”

“Attend to me, sir,” I broke in.  “Your Giuseppe came at me like a hog, and I gave him his deserts.  For the rest, if you move your hand another inch towards that gun I will knock your brains out.”  I clubbed my musket ready to strike.

“Gently, sir!” interposed the girl.  “This is folly, as you must see.”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “You will allow me, Princess.  If it come to vendetta, you have slain my friend.”

She gave her back to me and faced the ring.  “I tell you,” she said, “that Giuseppe’s death rests on the prisoner’s word alone.  Marc’antonio and Stephanu have gone down and will bring us the truth of it.  Meanwhile I say that this one is our prisoner, like as the others.  Give him room and let him wait by his friend.  Does any one say ‘nay’ to that?” she demanded.

The scowling man, with a glance at his comrades’ faces, gave way.  I could not have told why, but from the start of the dispute I felt that this girl held her bandits, or whatever they were, in imperfect obedience.  They obeyed her, yet with reserve.  When pressed to the point between submission and mutiny, they yielded; but they yielded with a consent which I could not reconcile with submission.  Even whilst answering deferentially they appeared to be looking at one another and taking a cue.

For the time, however, she had prevailed with them.  They stood aside while Billy and I lifted the litter and bore it to the shade of an overhanging rock.  One even fetched me a panful of water which he had collected from a trickling spring on the face of the cliffs hard by, and brought me linen, too, when he saw me preparing to tear up my own shirt to bind Nat’s wound.