The small face, usually so clear and pale, was swollen out of recognition and disfigured under a veil of crimson flecks; the lips were parched and brown. At the sound of Harry's voice the sick girl moved nervously, was silent an instant, then began to mutter afresh in broken, hurried words.
"Isita, dear! You poor little thing!" Harry exclaimed. "What is it, Isita?"
Perhaps the repetition of her name or the sound of the familiar voice broke through the sick girl's stupor, for she shivered, opened her eyes, reached out an imploring hand and stammered weakly, "Don't kill him! Don't! I can't—Don't let him! She—she—" The words died away into an unintelligible whisper.
One of Harry's arms was round Isita; her cool hand was on the hot forehead, when suddenly there was the sound of a harsh voice at the entrance of the room.
"Say, there! What's doin'?"
It was Mrs. Biane. Almost running she came from the kitchen. "Oh! It's you, Miss Holliday! I couldn't think. Put her down. Quick! It's the spotted fever."
Almost roughly the woman pushed between the bed and Harry.
"I know. That's why I came," Harry explained. "But what is she saying? What does it all mean? What is she afraid of?"
"Nothing." Mrs. Biane faced Harry defiantly. "The fever's got her. Biane killed one of her lambs the other night. She was comin' down with the fever then, I guess, for it's laid on her mind ever since."
Mrs. Biane was evidently agitated. Leaning over the bed, she smoothed the tossed sheets and straightened the pillow. "You had better come outside," she said to Harry. "Hearin' you talk upsets her. Anyhow, it ain't safe. Like's not you might catch it."