A shadow had fallen on her face.
"None too terrible for the truth," he said.
"They tell me—it was a man in Melbourne told me—it is the life makes them desperate," she cried. "Men who have been sent out for quite little things, become—"
"Dead to shame," he said, "men who would kill a woman who has served them as you have served us, for fear when they'd gone she would betray them—send her men and the black bloodhounds after them, condemn them to hell and torture again. Oh, women have done it, and men like me have made other women pay."
A gleam of anger lighted Mary Cameron's eyes.
"If you believe I would give them the chance of taking you back again there is Donald's gun on the shelf," she said. "Settle the matter for yourself. But if you will believe the truth it is this: My heart is with you and all like you."
The sick man muttered and cried; Davey waking, wailed fretfully.
"We'll go to-morrow," the stranger said. "You'll give us food and clothing?"
"Yes," she replied a little wearily. "But will you not rest now? I must be sleeping myself because the child will be ill if I'm not careful of him."
The man stood before her abashed, his face working as though he were restraining the desire to cry as Davey was crying.