Moll closed her eyes tighter and prayed still more fervently.
“Praying for Nell,” her trembling lips mechanically replied.
“Humph!” cried Nell, half fainting, throwing herself upon the couch. “There’s no spirit in this flesh worth praying for. Some wine, some wine; and the blessing after.”
The command brought Moll to her senses and she realized that it was really Nell who had entered thus unceremoniously. She rushed to her for safety, like a frightened deer to the lake.
“Nell, dear Nell!” she cried. “You are ill.”
“Wine, wine, I say,” again fell in peremptory tones from the half-reclining Nell.
Moll glanced in dismay at her bootless mistress: her garments all awry; her sword ill sheathed; her cloak uncaught from the shoulder and half used, petticoat-like, as a covering for her trembling-limbs; her hair dishevelled; her cheeks pale; her wild eyes, excitement-strained, staring from their sockets.
“You are wounded; you are going to die,” she cried. “Moll will be all alone in the world again.”
Her hands shook more than Nell’s as she filled a glass half full of wine and passed it to her mistress.
“To the brim, girl, to the brim,” commanded Nell, reviving at the prospect of the draught. “There!”