I drew back, startled at the man's haggard face and dark hair, meaning to go and call my mother, but the boy stretched out his hand to me and said eagerly—
'Give him a little water, for the love of God!'
A little water—how strange it sounded to me—a cup of water. Mother had said she hoped I should. I rushed back to the house, seized a horn mug, and there at the well the bucket stood half full.
The boy put the water to his father's lips, and the poor man swallowed a few drops with difficulty.
'How tired he is,' I said.
The boy shook back the dark hair from his eyes and looked up at me.
'He can't get on any farther. I don't know what to do.'
'Oh, you must come in here,' I said eagerly. 'Can't he walk? It isn't far.'
The boy bent down and spoke. I scarcely think the poor soldier understood what was said to him, but at his son's voice and touch he strove wearily to get up from the ground. Between us we managed to lead him into the kitchen. He fell heavily on the oak-settle near the window.
'Is he very ill?' I asked.