"I can't remember," the hollow voice went on. He fell back on the floor. He was weak from the loss of blood. "Red" lifted him up, and helped him around the table to a chair.
Lucia's eyes never left Morgan Pell's face. Was she dreaming? Was this some madness that had come to her? This brute come back to life! It was unbearable, unbelievable. She could not adjust her mind to the situation. But with true feminine instinct, she found herself leaving her chair where she had sat so long, going to the kitchen and getting a cup of water. Then she knew, in some strange way, that she had fetched a bowl, and a towel. These she placed on the table. Still she looked at her husband, as though he were a ghost—as, literally, he was. They had thought him dead—gone forever. Now he was back among them, speaking, moving. Incredible! One hand went to her face. She dreaded the thought of Morgan's seeing her.
It was Uncle Henry who broke the awful tension.
"You was shot!" he cried, to Pell.
The other looked at the old man in the chair. "Shot?" he said.
"Yes, and a rotten shot it was, too!" Uncle Henry was not afraid to say. "Gol darn it all!"
The moment was too tragic for anyone to smile.
"Who shot me?" Pell asked. He was very weak. He put the towel in the bowl of water, and pressed it to his forehead.
"A friend of mine!" cried Uncle Henry.
Gilbert glared at the old man. No one could be forgiven for a remark like that.