"Stolen," she muttered between sips.
"It's no less useful because of that," he said, coolly helping himself. "It's medicine—for both of us. We've had eighteen hours to-day. Salut, Yvonne! We'll pay for it some day."
"To whom?"
"To the chap who owns this lodge—a man of taste, a good Samaritan and a gentleman, if a mere vagabond may be a judge of Amontillado." He finished the glass at a gulp and set it upon the table. From her couch she watched him as he opened the windows and closed and fastened the shutters. Then he went outside and she heard him pottering around in the rain with Clarissa, undoing the pack and bringing it into the house, and leading the donkey off in the direction of the shed.
"An excellent man, our host," he laughed from the doorway. "Clarissa is up to her ears in hay."
He dripped with moisture, and, mindful of the furniture, took off his coat and hat and shook them in the hall.
"Now, child, we're snug. It's raining hard. No one would venture here in such a night. You must sleep—at once."
"What will you do?" she asked drowsily.
"I'm perishing for a smoke. You don't mind, do you?"
"Oh, no,—but you must—must sleep—too. I'm—very tired—very—" The words trailed off into mumbling, and before he could fill his pipe she was breathing deeply.