You _must_ be quiet!" The tone in his voice admitted no argument.

Submissive now to his greater strength, this daughter of wealth and power lay back, closed her tired eyes and let the revolutionist, the proletarian, minister to her.
Dipping the piece of shawl into the warm water, he deftly moistened the dried blood on her brow and cheek, and washed it all away.

He cleansed her sullied hair, as well, and laid it back from the wound.
"Tell me if I hurt you, now," he bade, gently as a woman.

"I've got to wash the cut itself." She answered nothing, but lay quite still.

And so, hardly wincing, she let him lave the jagged wound that stretched from her right temple up into the first tendrils of the glorious red-gold hair.
"H'm!" thought Gabriel, as he now observed the cut with close attention.