CHAPTER VII
THE JUDGMENT OF GOD
The man who had entered with such violence upon so violent a scene, stood waiting till the smoke of Pierre’s discharge had cleared away, then, still holding his gun in readiness, he stepped across the room and bent over the fallen man.
“I’ve killed him!” he said, just above his breath, and added presently, “That was the judgment of God.” He looked about, taking in every detail of the scene, the branding iron that had burnt its mark deep into the boards where Pierre had thrown it down, the glowing fire heaped high and blazing dangerously in the small room, the woman bound and burnt, the white night outside the uncurtained window.
Afterwards he went over to the woman, who drooped in her bonds with head hanging backward over the wounded shoulder. He untied the silk scarf and the rope and carried her, still unconscious, into the bedroom where he laid her on the bed and bathed her face in water. Joan’s crown of hair had fallen about her neck and temples. Her bared throat and shoulder had the firm smoothness of marble, her lifeless face, its pure, full lips fallen apart, its long lids closed, black-fringed and black-browed, owing little of its beauty to color or expression, was at no loss in this deathlike composure and whiteness. The man dealt gently with her as though she had been a child. He found clean rags which he soaked in oil and placed over her burn, then he drew the coarse clothing about her and resumed his bathing of her forehead.
She gave a moaning sigh, her face contracted woefully, and she opened her eyes. The man looked into them as a curious child might look into an opened door.
“Did you see what happened?” he asked her when she had come fully to herself.
“Yes,” Joan whispered, her lips shaking.