The courtyard at this early hour was quite deserted. She withdrew into the triangle of shade under the ancient roof. The line of demarcation between light and shadow was cleanly cut by the sharp rays of the sun. As she passed within the shelter, the faint mirage of silken floss on her cheeks vanished. They became deep olive, dark crimson-flushed, once more. She was a lovely thing, leaning back against the grey stone of the doorway. But under the bandage that still bound his delicately moulded forehead, the eyes of the stranger, darker and more sombre than her liquid own, were not melted by her beauty. They were looking far out over the harbour and beyond even that.
But hers were travelling over the aristocratic outline of the features and the slender figure, very strong under the suppleness. The suit of white had been carefully mended and pressed by her own hands. Fate had been very hard on him—she thought—it had been very hard on both of them.
His eyes strayed back again from the shimmering waters and quickened to sympathy at her plea.
"Very well, Mademoiselle—I will settle with your father."
She looked at the figure bent over the wine-casks within. She was sure he had heard, but she shrugged her shoulder scornfully. Her arm barred further progress through the doorway.
The inn-keeper deposited his measure on the stone pavements, wiping his hands, partly from necessity, rather more from obsequiousness, on the greasy apron which covered the thread-bare khaki trousers and the faded red sash girding his middle. He was very lean, and dried up like a parched
