The hands of the woman seized the hand of the priest, which held the pannikin, and kissed it, saying faintly: “You are good to me.... But I must sleep—I must sleep—I am so tired; and I’ve—very far—to go—across the world.”
This was said very slowly, then the head thick with brown curls dropped again on the priest’s breast, heavy with sleep. Father Corraine, flushing slightly at first, became now slightly pale, and his brow was a place of war between thankfulness and perplexity. But he said something prayerfully, then closed his lips firmly, and gently laid the figure down, where it was immediately clothed about with slumber. Then he rose, and standing with his eyes bent upon the sleeper and his fingers clasping each other tightly before him, said: “Poor girl! So, she is alive. And now what will come of it?”
He shook his grey head in doubt, and immediately began to prepare some simple food and refreshment for the sufferer when she should awake. In the midst of doing so he paused and repeated the words, “And what will come of it?” Then he added: “There was no sign of pulse nor heart-beat when I found her. But life hides itself where man cannot reach it.”
Having finished his task, he sat down, drew the book of holy offices again from his bosom, and read it, whisperingly, for a time; then fell to musing, and, after a considerable time, knelt down as if in prayer. While he knelt, the girl, as if startled from her sleep by some inner shock, opened her eyes wide and looked at him, first with bewilderment, then with anxiety, then with wistful thankfulness. “Oh, I thought—I thought when I awoke before that it was a woman. But it is the good Father Corraine—Corraine, yes, that was the name.”
The priest’s clean-shaven face, long hair, and black cassock had, in her first moments of consciousness, deceived her. Now a sharp pain brought a moan to her lips; and this drew the priest’s attention. He rose, and brought her some food and drink. “My daughter,” he said, “you must take these.” Something in her face touched his sensitive mind, and he said, solemnly: “You are alone with me and God, this hour. Be at peace. Eat.”
Her eyes swam with instant tears. “I know—I am alone—with God,” she said. Again he gently urged the food upon her, and she took a little; but now and then she put her hand to her side as if in pain. And once, as she did so, she said: “I’ve far to go and the pain is bad. Did they take him away?”
Father Corraine shook his head. “I do not know of whom you speak,” he replied. “When I went to my door this morning I found you lying there. I brought you in, and, finding no sign of life in you, sent Featherfoot, my Indian, to Fort Cypress for a trooper to come; for I feared that there had been ill done to you, somehow. This border-side is but a rough country. It is not always safe for a woman to travel alone.”
The girl shuddered. “Father,” she said “Father Corraine, I believe you are?” (Here the priest bowed his head.) “I wish to tell you all, so that if ever any evil did come to me, if I should die without doin’ what’s in my heart to do, you would know, and would tell him if you ever saw him, how I remembered, and kept rememberin’ him always, till my heart got sick with waitin’, and I came to find him far across the seas.”
“Tell me your tale, my child,” he patiently said. Her eyes were on the candle in the window questioningly. “It is for the trooper—to guide him,” the other remarked. “‘Tis past time that he should be here. When you are able you can go with him to the Fort. You will be better cared for there, and will be among women.”
“The man—the man who was kind to me—I wish I knew of him,” she said.