"He hain't eat nothin', neithah. He sure have been bad hurted."
The two women sat in the large room and talked in low tones, while at intervals Azalea crept to the door and looked in on them.
At last the baby wailed out with lusty cry, which sounded through the stillness of the house and roused Cassandra, but as she lifted her head, David clung to her and drew her cheek to his lips.
"Are you hurt?" he murmured. In some strange way he had confused matters, and thought it was she who had been shot.
"It's not me that's hurt," she said tenderly.
Azalea hurried away and returned with the warm milk she had prepared for Cassandra, who took it and held it to David's lips.
"Drink it, Doctah. She won't touch anything till you do."
Then he obeyed, slowly drinking it all, his eyes fixed on Cassandra's as a child looks up to his mother. As she rose, he held her with his free hand.
"What is it? How long—" His voice sounded thin and weak. "Strange—I can't lift this arm at all. Tell me—"