“Let us go there,” said she. She turned to look at the horses.
“They’ll be all right,” said Silas; “there’s lots of grass and there’s a pond over there—they’d live here a month without harm.”
He led the way to the fence, helped her over, and then, without a word they began to plod across the rice field.
When they reached the cabins they found them deserted, almost in ruins. They faced a great tract of tree-grown ground. In the old plantation days this place would have been populous, for to the right there were ruins of other cabins stretching along and bordering an old grass road that bent westward to lose itself amongst the trees, but now there was nothing but desolation and the wind that stirred the mossy beards of the live oaks and the rank green foliage of weeds and sunflowers. An old disused well faced the cabins.
Phyl gave a little shudder as she looked around her. Her mind, still slightly confused by the accident and beaten upon by troubles, could find nothing with which to reply to the facts of the situation—alone here with Silas Grangerson, lost, both of them, what explanation could she make, even to herself, of the position?
In the nearest cabin to the right some rough dry grass had been stored as if for the bedding of an animal. It was too coarse for fodder. Silas made her sit down on it to rest. Then he stood before her in the doorway.
For the first time in his life he seemed disturbed in mind.
“I’ll have to go and get help,” said he, “and find out where we are. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, but there’s no use in going over that. You aren’t fit to walk. I’ll go and leave you here. You won’t be afraid to stay by yourself?”
“No,” said Phyl.
“You needn’t be a bit, there’s no danger here.”