It was a poor enough room. It had one natural earth wall formed by the hill into which it was dug, and the rest of the walls were of laterally set green logs that were stripped of their bark in years of habitation. There was no light except that which was admitted through the doorway communicating with one of the two front rooms. But it was all sufficient to reveal the squalor in which those mountain folk lived. The floor was dust-dry earth, and the furnishings were the makeshift of barest necessity. It was sheer half-breed squalor of the poorest type, suffering under the indifference of those who lived in it.
The Wolf saw none of the poverty. He knew it. He had never known better. So it failed to offend. He had eyes only for the bed, with its worn, colored blankets, and the still ominous ridge that centred it. The blankets had been drawn up till that which lay beneath was completely hidden.
The silence was profound. It was a stillness different from any other the boy had ever known. And its effect on him was a sort of paralysis, from which he had neither power nor will to release himself.
He knew. There was no need for him to look. There was no need for him to raise even a corner of those blankets. The mountain fever had claimed its victim as he had been warned it would. The mother he had always known and loved, the one creature in all his young life who had never spoken a word of blame to him, whose whole thought had been always for his well-being and happiness, had gone. She was dead—dead. She had died alone. Utterly alone. And he would have given all the world to have been there to comfort her, and tell her of his boy’s love.
The stun of it held him helpless. He could only gaze. He could only eye that grim outline under the blanket and wonder like a child.
The sound of voices penetrated the silence. What they said the Wolf cared not. His ears were dead to all but a confusion of sound. But they had an effect of which he was wholly unaware. He moved. He reached out in an uncertain gesture. His fingers closed on the blanket cover near the head of the bed. And as they did so, thought bestirred. Some one must have drawn that blanket so. Who? Annette? Yes, it was Annette. And a new warmth crept into his heart.
The Wolf drew the blanket hesitatingly. His hand was shaking. He saw the black of the dead Luana’s hair. It was still shining as it had shone in life. Then came the waxen features without a blemishing line or wrinkle. Yes, they were like carved marble, a sort of soft-tinted marble that was very beautiful in his eyes. The whole of the dead face lay revealed. And the shaking hand steadied and held the blanket still.
The sound of the voices beyond went on. He gave them no heed. The boy’s whole soul was held by that upon which he was gazing—Luana—his mother. And she was dead—dead. Suddenly he took a step nearer to the bed. He leaned over it. He lowered his head and gently pressed his young lips against the marble-cold forehead. It was his farewell.
The blanket was back in its place as Annette had set it. The Wolf breathed a deep sigh. Then he turned away and moved out to join those, the sound of whose voices had reached him.