The tin candlestick had rolled away on the floor, and the candle had fallen out of it. The first thing Max had to do was to replace the one in the other, and to get a serviceable light. By the time he had done so he saw a movement in the girl's body. She was lying with her head on the floor. He put his arm under her head to raise it, when she started up, so suddenly as to alarm him, leaned back against the wall, still in her cramped, sitting position, and glared into his face.
"Look here," she said faintly, "I couldn't help it. You know—I think—I'm almost—starving."
"Heavens! Why didn't I think of it! Poor child! Get up; let me help you. Come to this chair. Wait here, only a few minutes. I'll get you something to eat and drink."
He was helping her up; had got her on her feet, indeed, when she suddenly swung round in his arms, clinging to his sleeve and staring again with the fixed, almost vacant look which made him begin to doubt whether her reason had not suffered.
"No, no, no," cried she, gasping for breath; "I can't stay here. I know, I know you wouldn't come back. If you once got out, got outside in the air, you would go back to your home, and I should be left here—alone—with the rats—and—that!"
And again she pointed to the curtained door.
Max felt his teeth chattering as he tried to reassure her.
"Come, won't you trust me? I'll only be a minute. I want to get you some brandy."
"Brandy? No. I dare not."
And she shook her head. But Max persisted.