“And the other?” asked Randal.
“Don’t know. He weren’t talkin’ o’ hisself—yes, they’re in there.”
It was a dirty little wattle-and-daub shanty set back in the dust of a section; and the power which had swept the rioters away from it, leaving it still and silent to the two, was the Shadow of Death. Randal went in, shutting the door on the curious stretched faces. The light of a tallow dip blinded his eyes after the soft glow. Then he walked over to the far end of the shanty.
There were two voices there. One muttering, sobbing, blaspheming in utter terror; the other low and tender and patient. Randal spoke:
“Ted,” he said; “Ted Douglas. It’s only Randal. Are you hurt?”
“Randal—oh, Randal! good enough! Tell Jimmie as I never come meanin’ ter git him run in. Tell him as he kin trust me still—tell him, Randal!”
Randal dropped on one knee by the thing that moaned and writhed.
“You needn’t judge Ted by yourself, you little brute,” he said roughly. “I can swear to it that Ted’s never felt anything but love for you—though what makes him such a blamed fool is more than I can tell you.”
Jimmie’s breath laboured and fluttered. He twisted weak fingers in Randal’s cuff.
