He thrust back the thought and stooped over her.
"Mon enfant, do you want anything to drink? You are thirsty, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes. And Emile—you won't—go away—yet?"
"Ma foi, no! Drink this and go to sleep."
He was the Emile of every-day life once more, brusque, blunt and practical. As he turned away to put the glass back on the table, he was debating whether it would not be wise to call up Maria. A woman would understand better what to do for another woman. He knew that Arithelli would never ask for anything under any circumstances.
He had taught her too well his own depressing theory that life "mostly consisted of putting up with things," and in practice thereof the pupil had outshone her master.
The rigid tension of her arms and hands as they lay on the coverlet told of her effort for composure, and he noticed for the first time that beautiful as the latter still were in shape and colour, one of the nails was broken, and the finger tips had spread and widened. When there had been meetings up in the hills at night she had always been left to see to the unharnessing of the horses and mules, and these disfigurements were the result of her struggles with saddle-girths and straps. Her work was usually well done, and if it did not happen to be satisfactory, she came in for the united grumbles of the whole party.
Emile bit into his cigarette as his eyes caught the discoloured lines of Sobrenski's sign-manual on her wrist.
It was entirely through him, Emile, that she had in the first place joined the league of conspirators, and this was one of the results. Sobrenski's judgment had been more far-seeing than his own. One girl in a roomful of fanatics, (he was one himself, but that did not make any difference,) would naturally stand a very poor chance if she was foolish enough to oppose them.
With masculine thoughtlessness Emile had set the candle close beside the bed, where it flared full into Arithelli's eyes.