She pressed her father's hand. "As thou sayest," she said; and after a moment, bending over Percival like some mother above her child: "What awaiteth him?" she asked.
"Some strong thing," Japhra said. "I know no more—that much I know without mistake. From the first when he came to us with his quaint ways and fair face I knew it. A big fight, as I have told him."
As if she believed her father to have divination, "Will he win?" she asked him.
"He is the fighting type," Japhra replied. "Victory for him. This night in the tent. To-morrow—whatever will. Though it be death—always victory."
She remembered that.
II
The doctor, when he came, showed himself a tough gentleman—abrupt of speech, of the type that does its rounds in the saddle—who said "Stiff crowd, you! Regular hospital here. Cracked head in every van. Boss Maddox—he's in a bad way. Now this young man. Make me fortune if you stop."
After examination: "Nursing," he said; "it's a case for nursing. He's gone over the mark. Head—and hands, by the look of 'em! Not my business that. Stiff crowd, you! Nursing. You'll have to watch it pretty sharp. That girl's got a way with him. That's what he wants."
"I am taking him home," Japhra said; "two days from here—if that be wise."
"Wisest thing. Get him out of this. Stiff crowd, you! I'll look in again midday. Send you some stuff. Then you can move. He's badly over the mark. Look after him."