Rhoda stared with increasing wonder. She was very weak and spent but her head was clear. She lifted her arms and looked at them. She was wearing a loose-fitting gray garment of a strange weave. She fingered it, more and more puzzled.
"You wake now?" asked a low voice.
Coming softly down the room was an Indian woman of comely face and strange garb. Over a soft shirt of cut and weave such as Rhoda had on, she wore a dark overdress caught at one shoulder and reaching only to the knees. A many-colored girdle confined the dress at the waist. Her legs and feet were covered with high, loose moccasins. Her black hair hung free on her shoulders.
"You been much sick," the woman went on, "much sick," stooping to straighten Rhoda's blanket.
"Where am I?" asked Rhoda.
"At Chira. You eat breakfast?"
Rhoda caught the woman's hand.
"Who are you?" she asked. "You have been very good to me."
"Me Marie," replied the woman.
"Where are Kut-le and the others?"
"Kut-le here. Others in mountain. You much sick, three days."
Rhoda sighed. Would this kaleidoscope of misery never end!
"I am very tired of it all," she said. "I think it would have been kinder if you had let me die. Will you help me to get back to my white friends?"
Marie shook her head.
"Kut-le friend. We take care Kut-le's squaw."
Rhoda turned wearily on her side.
"Go away and let me sleep," she said.