The old man stood for some time in thought.
"I have no complaint against the Feringhees," he said; "in my father's time the country was red with blood, but all my life I have eaten my bread in peace, and no man has injured me. Where are the English ladies?"
Ned led the way to the spot where Rose was still lying. The old man looked at her flushed face, and then at Kate, and said:
"The English ladies have suffered much, and can have done harm to no one. I will shelter them. My wife and daughter will nurse the sick one. They will be in the women's chamber, and my servants will not know that there is a stranger there. I believe that they would be faithful, but one who knows nothing can tell no tales. On the other side of the wood there is a shed. It is empty now, and none go near it. The English sahibs can live there, and each day I will bring them food. "When their sister is well they can go on again."
Ned translated the old man's words, and Kate, who was kneeling by Rose, caught his hand and kissed it in her gratitude. He patted her head and said, "Poor child!"
"How are we to carry Rose? I don't think she can walk," Kate asked.
The farmer solved the difficulty by motioning them to stay where they were. He then went off, and in ten minutes returned, bearing a dried bullock's skin. On this Rose was laid. The Hindoo took the two ends at her feet, the boys each one of those by her head, and then, slung as in a hammock, Rose was carried to the house, where the wife and daughter of their host, prepared by him for what was coming, received them with many expressions of pity, and she was at once carried
