“What do you want here?” she asked; “supper?”
“Go into the house and strike a light,” he said, and followed her in. And, as she turned from the blazing splinter, he caught her by the arm, feeling roughly for a concealed weapon. Face aflame, she struggled out of his clutch; and he was as red as she as they confronted one another, breathing heavily.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m—h-half-crazed, I think.... If you’re what you look, God knows I meant you no insult.... But—but—their damned spies are everywhere. I’ve stood too much—I’ve been in hell for two weeks——”
He wiped his mouth with a trembling, raw hand, but his sunken eyes still glared and the pallor once more blanched his sunken face.
“I’ll not touch you again,” he said hoarsely; “I’m not a beast—not that kind. But I’m starving. Is there anything—anything, I tell you? I—I am not—very—strong.”
She looked calmly into the ravaged, but still boyish features; saw him swing, reeling a little, on his heels as he steadied himself with one hand against the table.
“Sit down,” she said in a low voice.
He sank into a chair, resting the hand which clutched the revolver on the table.
Without a word she went about the business of the moment, rekindled the ashes, filled the fry pan with mush and bacon. A little while afterwards she set the smoking food before him, and seated herself at the opposite side of the table.
The boy ate wolfishly with one hand; the other seemed to have grown fast to the butt of his heavy weapon. She could have bent and shot him under the table had she wished; she could have taken him with her bare hands.