The Captain only said, "Yer be blowed!" and turned and kicked the fire, till it blazed up and filled the room with a rosy light, such only as smouldering pine logs can throw out when roused up into a flame; and then she turned around and looked at Bunker Hill as if she had firmly made up her mind not to be hoaxed. She looked at the good-souled hunch-back before her as if she would look her through; then suddenly her eyes rested on one of her white cuffs. "What the devil's that on yer sleeve? Been in a row again, eh?"
"Come, come, there's no time to lose. It's awful!"
Bunker Hill laid hold of Captain Tommy's arm, and attempted to drag her to the door. She was getting desperate.
Tommy pulled back, and still kept looking at the excited woman's white sleeve or cuff.
"What the devil's that on your sleeve? It looks like blood."
Bunker Hill lifted her arm, looking now herself, pulled back her sleeve, and held it to the light.
"Blood it is! Will you believe me now?"
The stubborn woman, who had been standing on the defensive, with her back to the fire, darted forward now all excitement, all sympathy. She snatched her outer garments from the foot of the bed, where they had lain all this interview, and threw them on her back. She did not stop to fasten them. She caught a blanket from the bed, threw it over her head, as she passed out all breathless, and left the cabin-door wide open, with the fitful pine fire making ghosts on the floor, and the fitful March morning riding in on the wind and sowing it with ashes.