2
During the next two days Trent lost cognizance of time. He warred against elemental forces, armed with the crudest of weapons. Queer, unfolding moments came to him, bringing a potent consciousness of conflict that took him back to nights of tragedy and smoky turmoil—a sense of blood in throat and nostrils that soldiers know.
The girl wavered on the border of delirium. In her weakness she pleaded for false stimulation, and there were times when he was tempted, for her sake, to take the easiest course. Yet he knew that to surrender would slay the tissues of resistance that he had struggled so steadfastly to build, and he forced himself to consider only a lasting relief, suffering himself an anguish as keen as the physical and experiencing self-loathing when he performed those intimacies that were demanded of him.
He had fought death where the harvest was ghastly, perhaps had grown a little calloused, as men will when in close and constant contact with human ills, yet always, even in the case of the meanest Hindu coolie, he felt a responsibility that challenged his sparring instincts. It was as though he guarded some terrible frontier.... But nothing had ever so drawn upon him and consumed his every unit of nerve and energy as this. He felt wholly accountable for her condition, here in this remote spot. Her pain was his own, a part of him, feeding upon his vitality. He gave willingly, seeming in moments when she was drawn close to the Door to infuse into her the power to fight as he, a strong man, could fight—physically and spiritually. He was lifting her, but sinking himself as he lifted. There were periods when thought and action were no longer submissive to will; his brain felt atrophied and he was sentient only to utter exhaustion. He seemed incapable of stemming the rush of things beyond his dominion—was an atom in the path of a blinding and inexorable force. The values of human remedies and sciences dwindled in his sight. He was drained. Yet a vitalizing power, some inner dynamo, never failed to energize him. He attended to every detail himself, allowing Masein and the Marus only to take turns with a palmleaf at the bedside.... It was, after he had exhausted medical means, a grapple in the dark with foes that were neither tangible nor corporeal; when it was over he did not understand nor try to fathom the miracle that was wrought.
At dusk of the third day her temperature was almost normal and she was sleeping quietly. Trent, his face haggard, left the Lisu fanning her and lurched rather than walked to the river. He shed his clothing and lay for some time in the shallow water, his head pillowed upon one bent arm, tasting of absolute relaxation.
When he returned to the tent Dana Charteris was awake. Her hair lay in red-gold confusion about her white face—a pool of glowing shades and lights. She smiled faintly as he entered and he took the palmleaf from Masein, motioning him to leave. She spoke.
"I think we've won."
By that he knew they had. A surge of relief swept up through him. It was like a new and strange delirium; it unseated his control. He sank upon his knees, and his lips touched one cool, moist hand. The fingers of her other hand ran lightly through his hair.
"O Arnold Trent, how you fought!" she breathed tremulously. "And all the while you were wondering, wondering why I was there that night—why I—"
"Hush," he remonstrated, lifting his head, again in command of himself. "It isn't finished yet. You must promise not to speak of that—not until I ask you. Now go to sleep. That is the quickest way you can get well."
"I promise," she said weakly, tears trembling in her eyes, "if you will rest, too. Will you? You need to be strong—strong—so you can help me."
She closed her eyes; sighed. Her hand slipped from his clasp.
He spread a blanket on the sand in front of the tent; spread it, and lay down; and almost instantly sleep declared itself the emperor of his being.