"Yes," he said eagerly--"yes, Teresa."

She stopped, stared at him; then taking him by the hand led him like a
child back to his couch. "Well," she said, in half-savage explanation,
"I told you the truth when I said the girl wasn't at the cabin last
night, and that I didn't know her. What are you glowerin' at? No! I
haven't lied to you, I swear to God, except in one thing. Did you know
what that was? To save him I took upon me a shame I don't deserve. I let
you think I was his mistress. You think so now, don't you? Well, before
God to-day--and He may take me when He likes--I'm no more to him than a
sister! I reckon your Nellie can't say as much."

She turned away, and with the quick, impatient stride of some caged
animal made the narrow circuit of the opening, stopping a moment
mechanically before the sick man, and again, without looking at him,
continuing her monotonous round. The heat had become excessive, but
she held her shawl with both hands drawn tightly over her shoulders.
Suddenly a wood-duck darted out of the covert blindly into the opening,
struck against the blasted trunk, fell half stunned near her feet, and
then, recovering, fluttered away. She had scarcely completed another
circuit before the irruption was followed by a whirring bevy of quail, a
flight of jays, and a sudden tumult of wings swept through the wood like
a tornado. She turned inquiringly to Dunn, who had risen to his feet,
but the next moment she caught convulsively at his wrist; a wolf had
just dashed through the underbrush not a dozen yards away, and on either
side of them they could hear the scamper and rustle of hurrying feet
like the outburst of a summer shower. A cold wind arose from the
opposite direction, as if to contest this wild exodus, but it was
followed by a blast of sickening heat. Teresa sank at Dunn's feet in an
agony of terror.