Astonishment and curiosity impelled young Thorpe to hazard another
question.
"Was she a sweetheart of yours?" he asked, unconsciously sinking his
voice to a whisper, "or a relation, or--"
"Kin to me. Kin to me," said Mat quickly, yet not impatiently; reaching
out his hand again to Zack's arm, but without looking up.
"Was she your mother?"
"No."
"Sister?"
"Yes."
For a minute or two Zack was silent after this answer. As soon as he
began to speak again, his companion shook his arm--a little
impatiently, this time--and stopped him.
"Drop it," said Mat peremptorily. "Don't let's talk no more, my head--"
"Anything wrong with your head?" asked Zack.
Mat rose to his feet again. A change began to appear in his face. The
flash that had tinged it from the first, deepened palpably, and spread
up to the very rim of his black skull-cap. A confusion and dimness
seemed to be stealing over his eyes, a thickness and heaviness to be
impeding his articulation when he spoke again.
"I've overdone it with the brandy," he said, "my head's getting hot
under the place where they scalped me. Give me holt of my hat, and show
me a light, Zack. I can't stop indoors no longer. Don't talk! Let me
out of the house at once.
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