“Who brought me here?”
“Hiram Bradford.”
“Bradford? Ah, yes! I remember now. I was wounded by the Winnebagoes. My companions left me, thinking I was dead. How long have I been here—several days?”
“Several weeks.”
“So long! Who has taken care of—of—me?”
He was panting for breath. Noting which, she answered kindly but firmly:
“Bradford has taken care of you. But you must talk no more—you are too weak. Close your eyes and try to sleep.”
“And you have—helped to nurse—me,” he went on brokenly. “I know—you have. I was dimly—dimly conscious of your presence. But I thought you were—were——”
“You must talk no more,” she sternly interrupted. “If you do not obey me, I will leave you here alone.”
A feeble, flickering smile for one brief moment illuminated his ghastly features. Then it was gone, and he murmured faintly: