Martin?"

"'Tis a poor word for it!" says I, sniffing at the roasting steaks.

"Alas! Our poor turtle-shell is all perished with the fire. Martin, if
you could but contrive me a pan with handles! I have found plenty of
clay along the river bank yonder." Here she gives me my steak on a
piece of wood for platter, and I being so sharp-set must needs burn my
mouth in my eagerness, whereon she gravely reproves me as I had been a
ravenous boy, yet laughs thereafter to see me eat with such huge
appetite now a bite of plantain, and now a slice of steak cut with my
knife.

"As to your pan with handles," says I, my hunger appeased somewhat, "I
will set about it as soon as I have made my bow and arrows--"

"There is no need of them," quoth she, and rising, away she goes and
presently comes back with a goodly bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Lord love you!" says I, leaping up in my eagerness. "Here's mighty
good weapon!" As indeed it was, being longer than most Indian bows and
of good power. Moreover it was tufted with feathers rare to fancy and
garnished here and there with fillets of gold-work, very artificially
wrought as were also the arrows. Nine of these there were in a quiver
of tanned leather, adorned with featherwork and gold beads, so that I
did not doubt but that their late owner had been of some account among
his fellows.

"I found them two days ago, Martin, but kept them until you should be
well again. And this I found too!" And she showed me a gold collar of
twisted wire, delicately wrought. All of the which put me in high good
humour and I was minded to set off there and then to try a shot at
something, but she prevailed upon me to finish my meal first; the which
I did, though hastily.

"There was a knife also," says I suddenly.

"Yes, Martin, but I threw it into the lagoon."

"O folly!" says I.

"Nay, we have two knives already, and this as I do think was poisoned."

"No matter, 'twas a goodly knife--why must you throw it away?"

"Because I was so minded!" says she, mighty serene and regarding me
with her calm, level gaze. "Never scowl, Martin, though indeed 'twas
goodly knife with handle all gold-work." At this I scowled the more
and she must needs laugh, calling me Black Bartlemy, whereon I turned
my back on her and she fell a-singing to herself.

"Think you these arrows are poisoned also?" says she as I rose. At
this, I emptied them from the quiver, and though their iron barbs
looked i