Fresh dry fuel had been piled on the back log and at last a
grateful sense of warmth and sleepiness pervaded her being. She no
longer felt hunger; she was too tired, her eyelids had grown too heavy
for her to harbour the thought of food. She settled forward in her chair
and nodded. The talk of the men, though as they ate and drank their
voices were lifted, grew fainter and fainter in her ears, further and
further away. Finally they were blended in an indistinguishable murmur
that meant nothing.... In a doze she caught herself wondering if the
wounded man in the next room would live. It was terribly still in there.
She was in that mental and physical condition when, the body tired and
the brain betwixt dozing and waking, thought becomes a feverish process,
the mind snatching vivid pictures from the day's experience and weaving
them into as illogical a pattern as that of the crazy quilt over her
shoulders. All day long she had ridden in the swaying, lurching, jerking
stage until now in her chair, as she slipped a little forward, she
experienced the sensations of the day. Many a time that day as the
racing horses obeying the experienced hand of the driver swept around a
sharp turn in the road she had looked down a sheer cliff that had made
her flesh quiver so that it had been hard not to draw back and cry out.
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