“Thank God you’re back, lad; but you’ve had a hard time of it.”
Roger made no answer; he merely bowed his head, and, taking from Loïs the bowl she now offered him, drained it at one draught.
“Fetch your mother,” said Nat, and once more the girl disappeared. “Now, Roger, cheer up, lad,” he continued. “When Martha has looked at your wounds, go straight away upstairs and sleep it off. Don’t try to tell us anything at present. I guess pretty well what has happened. It’s been rough work; but you’ve escaped with your life, and that’s more than I expected. Will you eat something?”
Roger shook his head, and rising to his feet he almost wailed forth,—
“He was my friend—my own familiar friend!”
It was terrible to see the agony in his face. Physical pain is as nothing compared with the wrench of the heart’s strings. Roger had gone away a young man; he came back with heavy lines across his brow, and a drawn, hard look about his mouth.
Martha now came in, followed by Loïs.
“There, don’t ye fret, Roger,” she said; “the thing’s done, and there’s no mending of it. Sit ye down, and let me see what ails your head and arm. I’d like to think it were none of his doing?”
Martha uttered the last words wistfully, almost questioningly; but Roger made no answer, and a deep sigh escaped her as she proceeded to unbandage his head. He was as docile as a little child under her hands.
“Get plenty of water and linen, Loïs, and be quick about it,” said Martha sharply; “and you, Nat, just hand me those scissors.” As they both turned away to obey her she bent over Roger, and whispered in a quivering voice, “It can’t hurt you as it hurts me, his mother.”