"Then I do thank God, soul and body, I thanks him," answered Ben, throwing his clasped hands aloft, "and if I was commander of the stoutest man-of-war as ever floated, I'd thank him all the same."
With these words Ben disappeared in the undergrowth and proceeded in search of help.
Admonished by the throes and struggles which proclaimed a painful return of life, Harrington lifted Mabel to a sitting posture and supported her there. His heart was wrung by every spasm of anguish that swept over her; yet at each one, he sent up a brief thanksgiving, for it was a proof of returning consciousness. Still she looked very deathly, and the sighs that broke through her pale lips seemed like an echo of some struggling pang within.
"Mabel," said Harrington, catching his breath as the name escaped his lips, "Mabel, do you understand?—are you better, Mabel?"
The name once spoken it seemed as if he could not repeat it often enough, it fell so like music upon his soul.
She struggled faintly—a thrill ran through her frame, and both lips and eyelids began to quiver.
"Who calls me?" she said, in a whisper. "Who calls and where am I?"
Her eyes were open now, and the refulgence falling around her from the burning cedar, seemed like the glory of heaven. In that light she saw only James Harrington bending over her. A smile bright and pure, as if she had been in truth an angel, stole over her face.
"Yes," she whispered with a sigh of ineffable happiness, "he may call me Mabel here."
He could not distinguish her words, but knew from the light upon her face, that she was very happy. His own features grew luminous.