“Oh, what shall I do?” she cried in sudden alarm. “I can’t leave you this way. You have been hurt. There is blood on your shirt. The cowards!––they’ve shot you.”
“Never mind me––hurry! It is nothing at all––only a scratch! Quick!” he gasped.
“Wait a moment then!” she whispered.
The man raised himself on his elbow and watched her as she ran to the tap in the pantry and filled a tumbler to the brim with water.
Greedy hands clutched the glass from her, and the contents were swallowed in great gulps. The man sighed like a tired child. He smiled slightly, showing teeth of delightful regularity.
“Water’s great––isn’t it?” he said childishly.
And as Eileen looked into his eyes she saw that they 15 were young eyes; eyes filled with tears, and eyes that were ever so blue.
“Quick! They’re pretty nearly here.”
Eileen commenced cautiously to pile the wood on top of him.
“Don’t mind me!” he whispered huskily. “Tumble it in. I’m––I’m only a runaway convict.”