“Yes, but they—”
“Chance didn’t do it, I tell you! If he says he did it he lies! It was—somebody else.”
“The soldiers?”
“No, not the soldiers.”
“I thought maybe—I saw one of them on guard in front of the house as we came in.”
“He’s guarding me, I’m under arrest, I tell you. The soldiers have nothing to do with him.”
Nola stood looking down at Macdonald, who was deathly white in the weak light of the low, shaded lamp. With a little timid outreaching, a little starting and drawing back, she touched his forehead, where a thick lock of his shaggy hair fell over it, like a sheaf of ripe wheat burst from its band.
“Oh, it breaks my heart to see him dying—it—breaks—my—heart!” she sobbed.
“You struck him! You’re not—you’re not fit to touch him—take your hand away!”
Frances pushed her hand away roughly. Nola drew back, drenched with a sudden torrent of penitential tears.