She searched the hut for wine, but there was none; broken, empty bottles lay among the fallen cards.
As best she could she washed his wounds and bound them up, made her cloak into a pillow for him and edged him a little nearer the fire.
Then she fell into sick weeping, shuddering tears as she wiped the blood from her fingers.
He moved again and spoke:
“Have they gone?”
She caught the whisper and bent over him.
“Yes.”
He moaned faintly.
“I am so cold—and sick—lift me up a little.”
She took his head onto her lap again; his eyes, a ghastly, icy blue in his white face, fluttered open.