"Go into the house and strike a light," he said, and followed her in. And, as she turned from the blazing splinter, he caught her by the arm, feeling roughly for a concealed weapon. Face aflame, she struggled out of his clutch; and he was as red as she as they confronted one another, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm--h-half-crazed, I think.... If you're what you look, God knows I meant you no insult.... But--but--their damned spies are everywhere. I've stood too much--I've been in hell for two weeks----" He wiped his mouth with a trembling, raw hand, but his sunken eyes still glared and the pallor once more blanched his sunken face. "I'll not touch you again," he said hoarsely; "I'm not a beast--not _that_ kind. But I'm starving. Is there anything--_anything_, I tell you? I--I am not--very--strong." She looked calmly into the ravaged, but still boyish features; saw him swing, reeling a little, on his heels as he steadied himself with one hand against the table. "Sit down," she said in a low voice. He sank into a chair, resting the hand which clutched the revolver on the table. Without a word she went about the business of the moment, rekindled the ashes, filled the fry pan with mush and bacon. A little while afterwards she set the smoking food before him, and seated herself at the opposite side of the table. The boy ate wolfishly with one hand; the other seemed to have grown fast to the butt of his heavy weapon. She could have bent and shot him under the table had she wished; she could have taken him with her bare hands. But she only sat there, dark, sorrowful eyes on him, and in pity for his certain doom her under lip trembled at intervals so she could scarcely control it. "Is there a horse to be had anywhere near here?" he asked, pausing to swallow what his sunken jaws had been working on. "No; the soldiers have taken everything." "I will pay--anything if you'll let me have something to ride." She shook her head. He went on eating; a slight color had come back into his face. "I'm sorry I was rough with you," he said, not looking at her. "Why were you?" He raised his head wearily. "I've been hunted so long that I guess it's turned my brain. Except for what you've been good enough to give me, I've had nothing inside me for days, except green leaves and bark and muddy water.... I suppose I can't see straight.... There's a woman they call the Special Messenger;--I thought they might have started her after me.... That shot at the ford seemed to craze me.... So I risked the ferry--seeing your light across--and not knowing whether Snuyder was still here or whether they had set a guard to catch me.... It was Red Ferry or starve; I'm too weak to swim; I waited too long." And as the food and hot tea warmed him, his vitality returned in a maddened desire for speech after the weeks of terror and silence.