She sprang to her feet.
“Is he—” she faltered thickly, “is he—”
“No, no, dearie! He is like he was, only they have fixed him a bit av a shelther from th' sun. Do ye dhrink this now,” she coaxed in her pretty voice; “dhrink it, asthore,—ye'll nade it f'r th' thrip.”
She held up a bowl of broth, steaming and sweet as the flesh-pots of Egypt, and Maren took it from her.
“But—did M'sieu—Oh, I have slept when I should have tended him!”
“Ye poor girl. Dhrink,—he has been fed like a babe be me own hands. There!”
There were tears in the little woman's eyes, and Maren took the bowl and drained it clear.
“You are good, Madame,” she said, with a long breath. “Merci! How good to those in need! But now am I right as a trivet and shamed that I must fail at the last. Are you ready?”
She picked up the blankets, smiled at the tall man who came for them, and walked with them down to the canoes.
“In th' big boat, lass, wid th' women,” said the leader; “'tis more roomy-like.”