"Ay, maybe. I guard my own, and there's a sort of bite about a Mecca when he's roused."
"There is, sir—a Yorkshire bite, they say."
Their route was hindered, not only by prowling vagabonds, but by the men who fell sick by the wayside, now that the stress of the big fight was ended, and they had leisure to take count of wounds. Miss Bingham went among the fallen, bandaging a wound here, giving a cup of water there, bringing constantly the gift she had of soothing sick men's fancies.
Once—it was when they camped on Outlaw Moss, and the gloaming found her nursing little Blake—the Governor and Squire Metcalf halted as they made their round of the camp.
"So Blake has given in at last," said the Squire. "Pity he didn't learn that lesson years ago."
"That is true, sir," said Miss Bingham gravely. "With a broken heart, there's no shame in lying down by the wayside. He should have done it long since."
The Governor laughed, as if a child's fancy had intruded into the workaday routine. "The jest will serve, Miss Bingham. We know Blake, and, believe me, he never had a heart to be broken. Whipcord and sinew—he rides till he drops, with no woman's mawkishness to hinder him."
"No mawkishness," she agreed. "I give you good-night, gentlemen. He needs me, if he is not to die before the dawn."
"Oh, again your pardon," said the Governor roughly. "You played in Knaresborough—you were always playing—and we thought you light."
"So I am, believe me, when men are able to take care of themselves. It is when they're weak that I grow foolish and a nurse."