This she could do, and this she must do, for there was no other way to save Agatha's life, and the lives of the little boys.
'A little more milk,' said the sick woman, opening her eyes again.
Nectaria crouched over the embers, and warmed what was left of the milk. Zoë, watching her movements, saw that it was the last; but Kyría Agatha was surely better, and would ask for more during the night, and there would be none to give her; none, perhaps, until nearly noon to-morrow.
Nectaria took the pan of coals away to replenish it, going out to the back of the ruined house in order to light the charcoal in the open air. The sick woman closed her eyes again, being momentarily satisfied and warm.
Zoë sank upon her knees beside the bed, forgetting that she was cold and half-starved, as the tide of her thoughts rose in a wave of despair.
The fitful night breeze wafted the words of the mad woman's crooning along the lane, 'Eleeison! Eleeison!'
And Zoë unconsciously answered, as she would have answered in church, 'Kyrie eleeison!'
'Blessed Michael, Archangel, give us meat, we starve!' came the wild song, now high and distinct.
'Kyrie eleeison!' answered Zoë on her knees.
Then she sprang to her feet like a startled animal. Some one had knocked at the door. With one hand she gathered her thin rags across her bosom, the other unconsciously went to the sick woman's shoulder, as if at once to reassure her and to bid her be silent.