With dark eyes watching closely, she had the air of a young, beneficent
Medea, intent on some white magic.
"Aren't you coming," called Heywood, "to sit with us awhile?"
"Can't, thanks," she replied, without looking up. "I'm too busy."
"That's no excuse. Rest a little."
She moved away, carrying her medicines, but paused in the door, smiled
back at him as from a crypt, and said:--
"Have _you_ been hurt?"
"Only my feelings."
"I've no time," she laughed, "for lazy able-bodied persons." And she was
gone in the darkness, to sit by her wounded men.
With her went the interval of peace; for past the well-curb came another
figure, scuffing slowly toward the light. The compradore, his robes lost
in their background, appeared as an oily face and a hand beckoning with
downward sweep. The two friends rose, and followed him down the
courtyard. In passing out, they discovered the padre's wife lying
exhausted in a low chair, of which she filled half the length and all
the width. Heywood paused beside her with some friendly question, to
which Rudolph caught the answer.
"Oh, quite composed." Her voice sounded fretful, her fan stirred weakly.
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