The fire came on with a
swelling roar. We followed our back-fire so close as to be almost
blistered by it, coughing, gasping, covering our mouths and nostrils in
such a heat and smother that I could scarcely support Rowena and keep my
own footing. Suddenly the heat and smoke grew less; I looked around, and
saw that the fire had reached our burnt area, and the line was cut for
lack of fuel. It divided as a wave is split by a rock, and went in two
great moving spouting fountains of red down the line of our back-fire,
and swept on, leaving us scorched, blackened, bloodshot of eye and sore
of lips, but safe. We turned, with great relief to me at least, and made
for the open country behind the lines. Then for the first time, I looked
at Rowena.
If I had been surprised at the way in which, considering her trouble,
she had kept her prettiness and gay actions when I had last seen her, I
was shocked at the change in her now. The poor girl seemed to have given
up all attempt to conceal her condition or to care for her looks. All
her rosy bloom was gone. Her cheeks were pale and puffy, even though
emaciated. Her limbs looked thin through her disordered and torn
clothes. She wore a dark-colored hood over her snarled hair, in which
there was chaff mixed with the tangles as if she had been sleeping in
straw. She was black with smoke and ashes. Her skirts were draggled as
if with repeated soaking with dew and rain. Her shoes were worn through
at the toes, and through the holes the bare toes stuck out of openings
in her stockings.
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