“Musha, it's a poor place he's come to. There isn't a wisp dry or wet that isn't under your side, and we haven't a stool better than the floor, or a chair better than a lump of clay, and we haven't as much fire as would cook the wing of a butterfly.”
“Be silent, woman,” said Grig, “and take my old great coat and fix it under me.”
She did that; and Theegerje came, and a load of faggots with him, and he put down a good fire, and Morrocha got food to eat, and when he warmed himself at the fire he was weary-wet, and he was falling asleep.
“The death-bands on you,” said Grig; “you're not like a doctor, for you've never asked what kind of sickness is on me.”
“It is not that,” said Morrocha; “but there are numbers of people, and their blood runs all together when they see strangers.”
“I am of them,” said Grig.
“I was not going to feel your pulse until you got quiet.”
When he became quiet Morrocha arose and felt his pulse.
“And great is the pity,” said he, “that a fine man like you should be lying in that place on one bed, and I will cure you. If you got potatoes and butter, and ate the full of your fist, you would not be long sick.”
