Durade had always feared Allie's
mother.
The women with whom Allie had ridden helped her out of the wagon,
and, finding her too weak to stand, they made a bed for her on the
ground. The camp site appeared to be just the same as any other part
of that monotonous plain-land, but evidently there was a stream or
water-hole near by. Allie saw her companions were the only women in
the caravan; they were plain persons, blunt, yet kind, used to hard,
honest work, and probably wives of defenders of the wagon-train.
They could not conceal their curiosity in regard to Allie, nor their
wonder. She had heard them whispering together whenever they came
near.
Presently Allie saw Durade. He was approaching. How well she
remembered him! Yet the lapse of time and the change between her
childhood and the present seemed incalculable. He spoke to the
women, motioning in her direction. His bearing and action were that
of a man of education, and a gentleman. Yet he looked what her
mother had called him--a broken man of class, an adventurer, a
victim of base passions.
He came and knelt by Allie. "How are you now?" he asked. His voice
was gentle and courteous, different from that of the other men.
"I can't stand up," replied Allie.
"Are you hurt?"
"No--only worn out.
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