“Hands off!” cried he, shaking her off, as if he could not bear her even to touch him.
His sleeve was in tatters, she felt, before he shook himself free.
“I want you to do something for me,” said he, gloomily enough.
A startled “Yes,” was the reply.
“Go and get some oil and some flour, and come up to my room—you know your way in the dark, don’t you?”
“Think! be sure, and be quick!” With this grumpy injunction he swung himself away, hugging the shadows, and so into the house and upstairs.
Tap! tap! Gentle little Samaritan—she had the oil, if not the wine; and when he bade her enter, she saw that she had indeed to bind up his wounds. He stood with his arm bare to the elbow—a poor scorched arm, from which charred skin was hanging.
“Now, see here: mix some flour and oil into a paste in this pomatum-pot, and spread it on this handkerchief; then bind it on to my arm, and hold your tongue. Can you do it, do you think?”
“Yes;” and the small girlish hands soon had the plaster ready.