She banged chairs and table about, folded up scattered clothes,
investigated them with much interest, and fingered and re-arranged the
row of boots with muttered ejaculations and covetous eyes. She had
previously contrived to get Arithelli into a night dress, had brushed
her hair back and plaited it, and pulled the green shutters together to
keep out the midday glare.
As she looked at the livid face patched with scarlet against the coarse
linen, Maria began to feel a little perturbed. Something in the
atmosphere of the room had penetrated even the brick wall of her
stolidity. She hoped the two Senors would soon return and relieve her
of the responsibility of her charge.
The stillness oppressed her, for Arithelli had ceased her moaning and
muttering for a merciful stupor.
As the hours went on the fever increased, and the horrible fungus in
her throat spread with an appalling rapidity.
As Michael Furness had prophesied, the crisis would soon be reached,
and she had everything save youth against her in the fight for life.
Maria crossed herself perfunctorily and mumbled a few prayers.
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