“It looks as if we would have to obey Father Batiste’s directions and feed him by force,” said the girl quietly. “He has come out of the fever, but he hasn’t got his senses back. He thinks of feeding himself. Do you get the straps, Uncle. You recollect Father Batiste’s orders.”
Duncan MacGregor scratched his hairy head in puzzled fashion.
“How now, stranger?” he growled. “Can you no take your food in peace?”
“I can take it without anybody’s help,” insisted Reivers. He knew that the situation was ridiculous, but he saw no way of getting the whip-hand.
“It was the word of the good Father, without whom you would now be resting out in the snow with a cairn of rock over you, that you should be fed so much and so little for some days after your senses come back,” said MacGregor slowly. “I do not ken the right of it quite, but the lass does. The lass—she’ll have her way, I suspect. I can do naught but obey her orders.”
“Get the straps,” commanded the girl curtly.
Reivers glared at her, but she looked back without the least losing her self-possession or determination.
“You’ll pay for this!” he snorted.
“Will you take your food without the straps?” said she.
For a minute their eyes met in conflict.