Sarah was by her husband's side, helping to bear him up, to pull him along. John said nothing. It was as much as he could do to move at all, with the assistance of them both.
"Tumbled into the pond! Not he! He's been in;
but it wasn't a tumble."
Once in the kitchen, they could see the state he was in—dripping wet, half-covered with green slime from the pond, his face ghastly pale, his right arm hanging helplessly, blood flowing still from a cut in his forehead. Stevens got him into a chair, and shut the door, John sat drooping forward, like one stupefied.
"Must have knocked his head against a sharp stone," said Stevens.
Sarah was bending over her husband, examining the cut. She straightened herself, and looked full at Stevens.
"Don't tell me that!" she said in a hard voice. "You know better! It's their doing—cowardly brutes, that dare to call themselves men!"
Then her manner softened, "But I do thank you," she said.
"Shouldn't wonder if you'd like me to help to get him up-stairs," said Stevens. "He don't seem able to stand alone. I say, Mrs. Holdfast—if I was you, I wouldn't go about saying it was the men."
"No, I won't; for they're not men!" she answered, with bitter scorn. "I'll say it's been done by brutes. You wouldn't have me say what I don't believe, would you? Tumbled into the pond! Not he! He's been in; but it wasn't a tumble."