At length he waved his hand.
"They're safe over there," said he. "Think of the children!"
"Yes, and you gave me my one chance. Why?"
"I don't know. I suppose it was because I am a brute!" The bitterness of his voice was plain.
[pg 101]
"Come, we must go to the wagons," said Molly at length, and would have risen.
"No, not yet. The burned ground must cool before we can walk on it. I would not even take my horse out on it again." He lifted a foot of the black Spaniard, whose muzzle quivered whimperingly. "All right, old boy!" he said, and stroked the head thrust down to him. "It might have been worse."
His voice was so gentle that Molly Wingate felt a vague sort of jealousy. He might have taken her scorched hand in his, might at least have had some thought for her welfare. He did speak at last as to that.
"What's in your wagon?" he asked. "We had better go there to wait. Have you anything along--oil, flour, anything to use on burns? You're burned. It hurts me to see a woman suffer."