“Oh, damn it, we can’t!” said the man furiously. As if in explanation of this remark, a woman suddenly appeared at the open front of the wagon. She had evidently been lying within it, and had not risen until now. When Moreau looked at her he experienced a violent thrill of pity, that the evident sufferings of the others had not evoked. He was a man of a deeply tender and sympathetic nature toward all that was helpless and weak. As his glance met the face of this woman, he thought she was the most piteous object he had ever seen. “You’d better come into the cabin,” he said, “and see what you can do. You can’t go on now, and you look pretty well used up.” The man gave a grunt of assent, and taking the other horse by the head began to lead it toward the cabin, being noticeably careful to steer it out of the way of all stumbling-blocks. The woman in the sunbonnet called to her companion in the wagon: “Come, Lucy, get a move on! We’re going to stop and rest.” Thus addressed, the woman moved to the back of the cart, drew the flap aside and slipped out. She came behind the others, and Moreau, looking back, saw that she walked slowly, as if feeble, or in pain. Advancing to the sunbonneted figure in front of him he said, with a backward jerk of his head: “What’s the matter with her? Is she sick?” The woman gave an indifferent glance backward. Like the man, she seemed completely preoccupied by their disaster. “Not now,” she answered, “but she has been. But good Lord!”--with a sudden burst of angry bitterness--“women like her ain’t meant to take them sort of journeys. If it weren’t for her, Jake and I could go on all right.” She relapsed into silence as the cabin revealed itself through the trees. It appeared to interest her, and she went to the door and looked in. It was the typical miner’s cabin of the period, consisting of a single room with two bunks. Opposite the doorway was the wide-mouthed chimney, a slab of rock before it doing duty as hearthstone. There was an armchair formed of a barrel, cushioned with red flannel and mounted on rockers. Moreau’s bunk was covered with a miner’s blanket, and the ineradicable habits of the gentleman spoke in the very simple but sufficient toilet accessories that stood on a shelf under a tiny square of looking-glass. Over the roof a great pine spread its boughs, and in passing through these the slightest breaths of air made soft eolian murmurings. To the pioneers, the wild, rough place looked the ideal of comfort and luxury.