"Barbara!" I cried, "where are you, Barbara?"
When only the weak sobs answered me I threw myself from the litter to the ground, falling in an impotent heap with my feet entangled in the wrappings. But I caught sight of my good dame staggering on behind, half dragged, half carried by two Indian youths. Her clothing was torn and draggled, her face pitiably scratched, while great tears chased each other down her wrinkled cheeks.
The litter had stopped. Padre Felipe helped me to my feet; but I turned from him and threw my arms around Barbara's neck. She clung to me desperately, her breath catching and her voice broken as she tried to speak.
The friar took her by the shoulder roughly.
"She is worn out with tramping through the woods all night. It is no wonder! But 'twas her own doing, for she would come; now she must keep up or be left behind. We must reach shelter before the storm breaks in earnest, for it will be no light one."
A heavier gust passed while he was speaking; there was a louder moan in the tree-tops, and a broken branch crashed down at our very feet.
"Have we much farther to go?" I asked. He shook his head.
"About a league, perhaps?"
"Not more," was his reply.
"Then put the poor dame in the litter, and I will walk."