At noon Blanca came out of the house and stood looking down at Walthew with a compassionate gentleness that she did not try to hide. The half-healed cut showed plainly on his forehead, his brown face looked worn, and he lay in an attitude of deep weariness.
"It is a pity to wake him, but we must start," she said, and indicated the scar. "I suppose you can guess that he has borne something, and he got that wound for you."
"I'm not likely to forget it," Grahame answered quietly.
"No," Blanca said with a curious smile. "You do not make many protestations, you men of the North, but one can trust you."
She stooped and touched Walthew gently.
"It is noon and we must go."
Her voice was quiet, but Walthew seemed to know it in his sleep, for he sprang to his feet with a half-ashamed air.
"I didn't mean to sleep so long," he said, and looked at Blanca anxiously. "Have you rested enough? Are you quite fit to travel?"
Blanca smiled; and when Walthew brought up the mule and helped her to mount she noticed something new in his manner. Hitherto, it had been marked by a certain diffidence, but now this had gone. He was assiduously careful of her, but with a hint of proprietary right. Something had happened since she had last seen him to account for the change. She gave Grahame a searching glance, but his face was impassive.
They set off, Walthew walking beside the mule, but it was to Grahame that the girl spoke as they moved slowly forward in the scorching heat. He thought he understood, and his eyes twinkled with amusement when she was not looking. Blanca suspected him, and she did not mean Walthew to take too much for granted.