ring from physical injury or from the other hurt which is
harder to bear. He could not guess if she were growing calm or if she
were losing consciousness. He could only plead with her, his voice
softer than Ernestine Dumont had ever heard the voice of David Drennen,
begging her to let him do something for her.

With a sudden, swift movement, she turned about, sitting up, her arms
about her knees, her head with its loosened hair thrown back. For the
first time he saw her face clearly. There was dirt upon it as though
she had fallen upon the trail, face down. There was a smear of blood
across her mouth. There was a scratch upon her forehead, and a trickle
of blood had run down across her soiled brow. He saw that, while she
had sobbed, no tears had come to make their glistening furrows through
the dust upon her cheeks. He thought that in his time he, too, had
known such tearless agony.

"Your help!" She flung the words at him passionately. "I'd die before
I'd take your help, Dave Drennen. What do you care for me?"

"I'm sorry for you, Ernestine," he said gently.

She laughed at him bitterly, her body rocking back and forth.

"Why don't you go?" she cried hotly. "Go on to MacLeod's. Your little
fool is waiting for you, I suppose," she sneered at him.

Dropping her head to her upgathered knees, her body rocking stormily,
moaning a little, she broke off. Drennen rose to his feet.

"I'll go," he said. "Shall I send some one to you?"

When she didn't answer he turned away from her. He had done all that
he could do. And, besides, he thought that the woman's physical
injuries were superficial and that her distress was doubtless that of
mere violent hysteria.

"Come back!" she called sharply.

He turned and again came to her side, standing over her, his hat in his
hand, his face showing only the old pity for her. Once more she had
flung up her head. In the eyes staring up at him was a hunger which
even David Drennen could not misread.

"Tell me," she said after a little, her voice more quiet than it had
been. "Do you love Ygerne Bellaire, Dave?"

"Yes," he answered quietly.

"You fool!" she cried at him. "Why is a man always blind to what
another woman can see so plainly? Don't you know what she is?"

"Let's not talk of her, Ernestine," he said a little sharply.

"She's too holy for a woman like me to talk about, is she? She's a
little cat, Dave Drennen! Can't you see that? Don't you know