He mocked her with his haggard eyes.
"That," she ran on swiftly, "is what you expected me to say to you, Bruce Standing, that you have been cruel! And, what I came back to say is: 'You have been good to me!'"
She had not meant to say anything of the kind. But when she looked into his eyes, when she saw the clear-as-crystal soul of him, a soul as simple as a child's and ... yes!... as clean; and when she remembered how she had ridden all day long while he had walked, and how he had steadfastly refused to so much as harm a hair of her head, the words gushed forth.
He eyed her queerly; suspicion in his look and confusion. She could have laughed out aloud suddenly, since her whole emotional being was aquiver; for he, Timber-Wolf, like his own wolf-dog, Thor, distrusted her and regarded her with fierce eyes and yet ... and yet....
"Your wound has not been dressed since morning," she said quietly. "And now you've got yourself another wound. I am going to help you with them."
His slave.... He had commanded her once to help him with his wound.... But his slave no longer, since he himself had set her free! Yet here she was, saying that she stood ready to help him care for his wounds. More, already she was getting warm water, and his old piece of castile soap ... she was rolling up her sleeves....
He glared at her through a mist. He could be sure of nothing, since it seemed to him that she was half smiling! A tender, wistful sort of smile ... as if she had it in her heart to forget injuries done, to forgive him who had done them, and to succor him now that there was little of man-strength left in his body.... Curse her! What right had she to forgive, to look at a man that way? He had asked nothing from her, save that she leave him....
He stirred uneasily. Had she smiled? In this uncertain light one could be certain of nothing; the flickering of the wood fire, casting quick-racing little shadows, breaking into their play with sudden warm, rosy gleamings, made it impossible for him to know if she had smiled, or if that semblance of a smile were but the effect of shifting lights. He held himself rigid, his back to the wall now, his right hand clinched on his knee.
"When I am in need of your help ... you who shot me...."
She came to him unafraid; she set down the can of warm water on the floor; she began unbuttoning the neck of his shirt. He threw up his hand, the right, hard-clinched, as though he would strike her in the face; but he let the hand fall back to his side. She heard a great sigh.