Eldon lay motionless, the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. But his brain was alert. He heard the tantalizing sound of water being poured. A vessel was held to his lips and water dribbled into his mouth. It took all his control to keep from gulping greedily, and he had not had nearly enough when Margaret took the glass away.
Once more there was water, this time mingled with perfumed soap on a soft cloth as she washed the dirt from his face. Once he had delighted to have this woman near him, but now it was all he could do to suppress a shudder. Whenever her hands touched his skin he could feel that she was Of the Faith in a manner possible only through her own free will.
She snipped the tattered remains of his clothing away and applied a soothing ointment to his cuts and scratches. He thought he understood why she did not leave such ministrations to her slaves. She wanted his first waking thoughts to be of her love and solicitude. His lips almost thinned angrily.
He waited until she was growing impatient before he opened his single bloodshot eye. And then he held his face blank and empty.
"Eldon," she whispered softly, in English. "Eldon, it's me, Margaret. The girl who loves you."
"Margaret?" His voice was thick and hoarse, and that was not acting. Thirst had left his throat cracked and dry.
"Poor Eldon!" Her tone was soothing, caressing. "What did those nasty Rebels do to you?"
Eldon twisted his face in an idiotic grin. He giggled insanely, and when she tried to touch him drew back like a frightened animal. He muttered vaguely of horrors.
"Poor Eldon," she said again, and kissed him. With his increased sensitivity it was all he could do to keep from retching as her lips touched his. But he clung to her with his one shaking arm as though begging her protection.