“He saved my life,” said Roger.
“Thank God for that,” answered Martha; and turning round, she added, “Do you hear, Father Nat? My poor boy saved Roger’s life,” and great tears ran down her cheeks.
“I said he would!” came from Loïs, who returned with basin and ewer just as her mother uttered the last words.
“But I’d rather have died than have seen him as he now is,” said Roger.
“Nay, lad,” returned Nat; “your dying would not have given him back to us: it would but have made our hearts the sorer. Live to prove yourself the better man. Now be quick, Martha; the sooner he’s in bed the better.”
The wound on Roger’s head was both deep and painful; it had been caused by a blow from a steel hatchet—how it had not killed him was the marvel. His arm had a deep flesh wound. But what ailed him most was the great moral depression. He had evidently received a shock, from which he had not been able as yet to recover. Loïs as she helped her mother watched him closely, but she kept silent, knowing the sorrow was still too fresh to allow of comfort. When the dressing was over and he had drunk another bowl of fresh water, he rose, saying,—
“I will follow your advice, father, and go to bed. Call me at suppertime.”
And without uttering another word, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, he quitted the kitchen. They heard him go slowly up the stairs, and, crossing the floor of the room overhead, fall heavily upon his bed.
Father Nat gave a deep groan, and Martha, sinking on a settle, threw her apron over her head and sobbed bitterly.
Loïs, kneeling down beside her mother, laid her head on her shoulder. No one spoke; they were realising for the first time how great the barrier must needs be which had arisen between them and Charles Langlade, the Indian chief.