"Poor woman! Good Lord; what bad luck!"
"Try and hurry, Lundi."
"But I can't see. Perhaps if I could wipe the blood out of my eyes,
Gay—where the deuce is my handkerchief?"
"Here is mine—let me do it for you. Sit down for a moment on this ant-heap."
She knelt by his side and gently wiped away the blood. By the sweat that was pouring down his face, she knew that he must be suffering intense pain, and was almost afraid to touch the wounded eyes.
"Is that better? Can you see now?" she asked fearfully.
"No," he said quietly. There was a moment of anguished silence between them, then he laughed.
"Cheerful if I am going to be blind!"
The words tore her heart in two, appealing to all that was tender and noble in her nature, and to that brooding maternal love that was almost stronger in her than lover's love. She seemed, as once before when trouble was on him, to see him as a bright-haired boy with innocent eyes, whom life had led astray, but who was ready with a laugh on his lips to face the worst fate would do. And she cried out, with a great cry, tenderly, brokenly:
"No, no, Lundi; you shall not be blind!"