“Where is—he?”
“Who?”
“Lassiter!”
“You needn’t worry none about him.”
“Where is he? Tell me—instantly.”
“Wal, he’s in the other room patchin’ up a few triflin’ bullet holes.”
“Ah!... Bishop’ Dyer?”
“When I seen him last—a matter of half an hour ago, he was on his knees. He was some busy, but he wasn’t prayin’!”
“How strangely you talk! I’ll sit up. I’m—well, strong again. Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?”
“Wal, beggin’ your pardon fer blunt talk, Miss Withersteen, Dyer was on his knees an’ not prayin’. You remember his big, broad hands? You’ve seen ’em raised in blessin’ over old gray men an’ little curly-headed children like—like Fay Larkin! Come to think of thet, I disremember ever hearin’ of his liftin’ his big hands in blessin’ over a woman. Wal, when I seen him last—jest a little while ago—he was on his knees, not prayin’, as I remarked—an’ he was pressin’ his big hands over some bigger wounds.”