“‘No,’ she wept. ‘Ah, no!’
“When she went I lay down, pressing my chest where she had rested on the earth, lest being alone were worse emptiness than hunger.
“Later she came again. I saw her bend in the doorway, a lanthorn hanging in front. As she peered under the redness of her falling hair, I was afraid of her. But she came with food. We sat together in the dull light. Sometimes still I shivered and my throat would not swallow.
“‘If,’ said I, ‘I eat all this you have brought me, I shall sleep till somebody finds me.’
“Then she took away the rest of the meat.
“‘Why,’ said I, ‘should I not eat?’ She looked at me in tears of fear.
“‘What?’ I said, but still she had no answer. I kissed her, and the hurt of my wounded mouth angered me.
“‘Now there is my blood,’ said I, ‘on your mouth.’ Wiping her smooth hand over her lips, she looked thereat, then at me.
“‘Leave me,’ I said, ‘I am tired.’ She rose to leave me.
“‘But bring a knife,’ I said. Then she held the lanthorn near my face, looking as at a picture.