gate. The woman went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran at Macavoy
and spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him as, whoever
hears, be he one that's cursed or any other, shudders at till he dies.
Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Macavoy turned to the Indians,
stretched out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He stooped
down, picked up the woman, carried her into the Fort, and laid her on a
bed of skins.

"What will you do?" asked Pierre.

"She is my wife," he answered firmly.

"She lived with Whelan."

"She must be cared for," was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a
curious quietness. "I'll get liquor for her," he said presently. He
started to go, but turned and felt the woman's pulse. "You would keep
her?" he asked.

"Bring the liquor." Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve of
his shirt in it, wetted her face gently.

Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He
stayed with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes
opened, and she shivered greatly.

"It's bither cold," she said. "You'll put more wood on the fire, Tim, for
the babe must be kept warrum."

She thought she was at Malahide.