"Yes?"
"Got my leg in that crack."
Was he able to advise her? She looked at him, and then perceived that
she must bind up his head and face. She knelt behind him and raised his
head on her knee. She had a thick silk neck muffler, and this she
supplemented by a band she cut and tore from her inner vest. She bound
this, still warm from her body, about him, and wrapped her dark cloak
round his shoulders. The next thing was a fire. Five yards away,
perhaps, a great mass of purple [v]gabbro hung over a patch of nearly
snowless moss. A hummock to the westward offered shelter from the bitter
wind, the icy draught, that was soughing down the valley. Always in
Labrador, if you can, you camp against a rock surface; it shelters you
from the wind, guards your back.
"Dear!" she said.
"Awful hole," said Trafford.
"What?" she cried sharply.
"Put you in an awful hole," he said. "Eh?"
"Listen," she said, and shook his shoulder. "Look! I want to get you up
against that rock."
"Won't make much difference," replied Trafford, and opened his eyes.
"Where?" he asked.
"There."
He remained quite quiet for a second perhaps. "Listen to me," he said.
"Go back to camp."
"Yes," she said.
"Go back to camp. Make a pack of all the strongest
food--strenthin'--strengthrin' food--you know?" He seemed unable to
express himself.
"Yes," she said.
"Down the river. Down--down. Till you meet help."
"Leave you?"
He nodded his head and winced.
"You're always plucky," he said. "Look facts in the face. Children.
Thought it over while you were coming." A tear oozed from his eye.
"Don't be a fool, Madge. Kiss me good-by. Don't be a fool. I'm done.
Children."
She stared at him and her spirit was a luminous mist of tears. "You old
_coward_," she said in his ear, and kissed the little patch of rough and
bloody cheek beneath his eye. Then she knelt up beside him. "_I'm_ boss
now, old man," she said. "I want to get you to that place there under
the rock. If I drag, can you help?"