"Here we are talking—wasting time," she said. "I must start home. You can't be moved. What shall I do?"
"That's for you to say, Bostil's daughter."
"My name's Lucy," replied the girl, blushing painfully, "I mean I'll be glad to do anything you think best."
"You're very good."
Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been a fine, strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that look which always went to a woman's heart. He had the look of a homeless rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest.
"Then I'll do what I think best for you," said Lucy.
First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow for the rider's head, and she covered him with the saddle blanket. Before she had finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he was!
"I'll water the horses—then tie Wildfire here on a double rope. There's grass."
"But you can't lead him," replied the rider.
"He'll follow me."