“That won’t be this s’ennight,” interjected David.
“But how—what?” queried Christian helplessly.
“This brought me,” said Countess, touching the child. “I was under vow to save him. And—well, I could not do it otherwise.”
“Is he alive?” asked Christian pityingly.
“Yes, only very fast asleep. Lay him down with your little ones, and wrap this coverlet over them all, which has sheltered us in our journey.”
It was a down coverlet of rich damask silk. Christian’s fingers touched it as with a feeling of strangeness, and yet familiarity—as a handling of something long unfelt, but well-known years ago.
“I have nothing to offer you save a crust of barley bread,” she said hesitatingly. “I am sorry for it, but it is really all I have.”
“Then,” said Countess with a smile, “play the widow of Zarephath. Give me thy ‘little cake,’ and when the light dawns, you shall have a new cruse and barrel in reward.”
“Nay, we look for no reward,” answered Christian heartily. “I am only grieved that it should be so little. You are spent with your journey.”
“I am most spent with the weight. I had to carry the child, and this,” she replied, touching a large square parcel, tied in a silk handkerchief round her waist. “It is the child’s property—all he has in the world. May the Blessed One be praised that I have saved them both!”