“How could I forsake you?”
The front kitchen was empty; but there was fire on the hearth, and the lighted lamp showed Loïs how worn and travel-stained he was. His face was thin and haggard, his lips shrivelled with exposure and cold; his bearskin partially hid the dilapidated condition of his clothes. He drew near the fire and stretched out his hands to the flame. Marcus, looking at him, said,—
“You will eat, Charles?”
“I have had no food since yesterday,” he said; “my provisions have come to an end, and there is no game abroad in this weather.”
“Sit down and warm yourself,” said Loïs, pushing him gently into the chair which had been his father’s. “All are gone to rest. I will get your supper.”
“Tell me first what of Father Nat. Does Roger know?”
“Father Nat was terribly wounded,” said Loïs; “and for a long time we despaired of saving him; but within the last fortnight there have been signs of gradual improvement; he has seemed to recognise us at times. But now ask no more until you are refreshed,” and she left the kitchen, whilst Marcus filled a pipe and handed it to his brother.
“It is the calumet of peace,” he said.
“You heap coals of fire on my head.”
But nature was so exhausted that he sank back in his chair, and, putting the pipe to his lips, slowly smoked.