“I beg your pardon,” she began, “I am sorry to interrupt you, but I am in trouble. I have wandered about for I cannot tell how long—hours, I think—and I have lost myself. I am so tired.” There was almost a sob in her voice as she sank upon the stone on which Rhys had been sitting. “I beg of you, sir, to show me the way back to Crishowell.”
She was stooping down and holding her ankle in her hand as though it hurt her; her boots were thin and cut in places, and the mud had almost turned them from their original black to brown. She was evidently young, though her thick veil hid her features, and her clothes were absurdly unsuited to her surroundings.
“Oh, my foot!” she exclaimed, “I have hurt my foot. Something ran into it as I came through those bushes.”
Rhys looked down.
“It is bleeding,” he said, noticing a reddish spot which was soaking through the mud. “Your boots are not strong enough for such places.”
“I did not mean to come up here. I went for a walk from my uncle’s house in Crishowell. I only intended to go a little distance up the hill, but I could not find my way back, and there was no one to direct me after I had passed the village. Does nobody live about here?”
“Not near here, certainly,” he replied.
“And how far do you think I am from Crishowell?”
“About three miles.”
“Three miles!” exclaimed the girl, hardly restraining her tears. “How can I ever get home? And with this foot, too.”