soaked canvas clinging to him, his breast and back bare and looking like the torso of a bronze Hercules; his head was shaved close, his shoulder had a brand.
Musa felt the bright brave blood in her veins run cold. She had heard of galleyslaves; she knew now that she was facing one, alone on the lonely shore.
'I understand,' she said very low. ' You have escaped———?'
He moved his head in assent.
'You will not betray me?' he said quickly. 'If you do, though I have no knife, I will kill you. You are young. One could crush you to death.'
'You could,' said the child, and stood looking down on him, wondering why she had seen him this hot, silent night—why she had saved him.
Another of her age would have fled in terror; Musa did not leave him. His very ferocity and wretchedness rooted her there and kept her wondering, and forgetful, or indifferent, of personal pity.
'How did you escape? By swimming?' she asked breathlessly; the longing for the bold, strange tale that he must have to tell overcame every other feeling in her.
