Seated in her blanket, she drank the coffee; ate a little; then lay down again in the early sun, feeling the warmth of the heap of whitening coals at her feet, also.
For an hour she dozed awake, drowsily opening her eyes now and then to look across the glade at the pool over which a single dragon-fly glittered on guard.
Finally she rose resolutely, grasped a bit of soap, and went down to the edge of the pool.
Tressa was in flannel shirt and knickers when her husband and Selden hailed the camp and presently appeared walking slowly toward the dead fire.
Their grave faces checked her smile of greeting; her husband came up and laid one hand on her arm, looking at her out of thoughtful, preoccupied eyes.
“What is the Tchordagh?” he said in a low voice.
The girl’s quiet face went white.
“The—the Tchordagh!” she stammered.
“Yes, dear. What is it?”