“Oh, you are very clumsy!” she cried, springing up, and, snatching the towel from me, she began to stanch the blood with it.  “If you will sit down, I will bind it up for you.”

“Really, it is quite unnecessary,” I demurred.

“Quite!” said she; “is there anything will serve as a bandage?”

“There is the towel!” I suggested.

“Not to be thought of!”

“Then you might tear a strip off the sheet,” said I, nodding towards the bed.

“Ridiculous!” said she, and proceeded to draw a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress, and having folded it with great nicety and moistened it in the bowl, she tied it about my temples.

Now, to do this, she had, perforce, to pass her, arms about my neck, and this brought her so near that I could feel her breath upon my lips, and there stole to me, out of her hair, or out of her bosom, a perfume very sweet, that was like the fragrance of violets at evening.  But her hands were all too dexterous, and, quicker than it takes to write, the bandage was tied, and she was standing before me, straight and tall.

“There—­that is more comfortable, isn’t it?” she inquired, and with the words she bestowed a final little pat to the bandage, a touch so light—­so ineffably gentle that it might almost have been the hand of that long-dead mother whom I had never known.  “That is better, isn’t it?” she demanded.

“Thank you—­yes, very comfortable!” said I. But, as the word left me, my glance, by accident, encountered the pistol near by, and at sight of it a sudden anger came upon me, for I remembered that, but for my intervention, this girl was a murderess; wherefore, I would fain have destroyed the vile thing, and reached for it impulsively, but she was before me, and snatching up the weapon, hid it behind her as she had done once before.

“Give it to me,” said I, frowning, “it is an accursed thing!”

“Yet it has been my friend to-night,” she answered.

“Give it to me!” I repeated.  She threw up her head, and regarded me with a disdainful air, for my tone had been imperative.

“Come,” said I, and held out my hand.  So, for a while, we looked into each other’s eyes, then, all at once, she dropped the weapon on the table, before me and turned her back to me.

“I think—­” she began, speaking with her back still turned to me.

“Well?” said I.

“—­that you have—­”

“Yes?” said I.

“—­very unpleasant—­eyes!”

“I am very sorry for that,” said I, dropping the weapon out of sight behind my row of books, having done which, I drew both chairs nearer the fire, and invited her to sit down.

“Thank you, I prefer to stand,” said she loftily.

“As you will,” I answered, but, even while I spoke, she seemed to change her mind, for she sank into the nearest chair, and, chin in hand, stared into the fire.

“And so,” said she, as I sat down opposite her, “and so your name is Peter Smith, and you are a blacksmith?”