She looked at me—­for between us, by this time, one spoken word would be the key to a dozen unspoken.  “You are not fit to start,” she stammered hastily, “nor will be for a long while.  There are mountains behind these, and again more mountains—­” She broke off and sat down upon a pine-log, trembling.

“I was not thinking of that,” said I; “but of these people and their hospitality.  Since we have no money I must work for them—­at least, until I can get money sent from England.”

She glanced at me again, and with a shiver up at the snow peaks beyond the pines.  I could read that she struggled with something, deep within her, and I waited.  By-and-by she leaned forward, clasped her hands about her knee, and sat silent for a long minute, gazing southward over the plain at our feet.

“Listen,” she said at length, but without turning her eyes.  “I have something to confess to you.”  Her voice dragged upon the words; but she went on, “You have not asked me what has happened in Genoa after—­that night.  The snow covered up our footmarks and the blood—­for you were bleeding all the way; but at our lodgings the actors were frightened out of their wits, and worse than ever when I told them what had happened to Marc’antonio and Stephanu.  They would all be arrested, they declared; the Bank of Genoa had eyes all over the city.  Nevertheless one of them showed great courage.  It was that strange friend of yours, Messer’ Badcock.  My first thought was to get you down to the boat and slip away to sea; and he offered—­he alone—­first of all to make his way to the harbour and bring word if the coast (as he said) was clear.  He went very cautiously, by way of a cellar leading under our house and the next, and opening on a back street—­this, that his steps might not be traced to the front door; and it was well that he went, for on the quay, hiding behind a stack of timber, he saw two men in uniform posted at the head of the water-stairs.  So he hastened back, using less caution, because by this time the snow had smoothed over his tracks, and was falling faster every moment.  The actors had already begun to pack, and Messer’ Fazio was running about in a twitter, albeit he declared that, beside themselves, not a soul in Genoa knew of his having lodged these Corsicans.  Doubtless, however, his house would be searched in the morning, and the important, the pressing need was to get rid of us.

“In his haste he could think of nothing better than an old onion-loft, some sixty paces up the lane at the back.  It was a store merely, not connected with any house, but owned by a rich merchant of the city who had acquired it for some debt and straightway forgotten all about it—­at least, so Messer’ Fazio declared.  If we were discovered in hiding there, it could be explained that we had found it, and used it for a lodging, asking no man’s leave; and suspicion would fall on no good citizen.