She ceased and passed her hand across her eyes.
“I must get him back,—I must get him back.”
“Aye, aye. Ye come with me. Ye need a woman's hand, girl. Ye're well in yerself.”
There was a huskiness to the sharp voice and the man took her by the arm, turning her toward the fire and the two women. She stumbled a step or two in the short stretch.
“I must go back to him, M'sieu!” she protested. “He will need—will need—broth—and a wet cloth to his bruised head—”
“We'll see to him, don't ye fret. It's shlape ye need yerself. Sheila, whativer do ye think o' this! Here's a colleen shlipped through the fingers of those bow-legged signboards and fair done wid heroism an' strategy, an' Lord knows what all, an' off her feet wid tire! Do ye take her an' feed her. Put her to bed on th' blankets an' do for her like yerself knows how, darlint! 'Tis an angel unaware, I'm thinkin'—an' her on Deer River!”
One of the women, a little creature with dark hair and blue eyes, Irish eyes “rubbed in with a smutty finger,” came forward and looked up into Maren's stained face, streaked with her tears, her eyes dazed and all but closing with the weariness that had only laid its hand upon her in the last few moments, but whose sudden touch was heavy as lead.
“Say ye so!” she said wonderingly; “a girl! So this was what caused the rumpus in the night! But come, dearie, 'tis rest ye want, sure!”
She laid her and on Maren's arm and there was in its gentle touch something which broke down the last quivering strand of strength within the girl, striving to stand upright.
“Yes, Madame,” she said dreamily. “Yes, but he must have—he must have—broth—and a bandage,—wet”