At the door, the man carrying the rifle came close to Eileen. He caught her hand in his and tapped it lightly.
“Don’t worry, little girl! I tried my best to keep them from disturbing you,” he said in low tones, “but you know what these fellows are like.”
“Thank you! You are very kind,” answered Eileen quietly. “Father will thank you, too, when he comes back.”
The Mayor wished her good-night, raised his hat and followed the others, who were already well on their way down the hill.
Eileen waited at the door until they were no longer within sight or earshot. Then she closed and bolted it. She ran over to the wood-box. She tossed the chunks of wood about her in frantic haste, whispering, almost crooning, to the man underneath, who did not hear her for he was lying there crumpled in a senseless heap.
With a cry she freed him and bent over him. Her supple young arms went under his shoulders. She raised him, half dragging, half lifting, until she had him stretched upon the floor in front of the stove. She ran for a basin of water, cut some linen into strips and, on her knees beside him, she bathed and dressed the raw, open wound in his side, where a bullet had ripped and torn along the white flesh.
When she finished, she raised his limp head and bathed his brow with cold water.
The fugitive groaned and opened his eyes.
He smiled a wan sort of smile through a grimy, unshaven mask, as he looked into the sweet face above him. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he feared the picture might vanish.