I grew faint, a mist crept around me, and I leaned against the wall for support. No one seemed to observe it, for I made no noise, and they were busy with her.
“I am glad, that it is no worse; the leaves were so thick, and I looked only at the bird: Can you stand now? The blood is all away, nothing but a rosy glow on your neck is left to reproach us.”
It was Irving’s voice, and I could see dimly as through a mist that Cora still clung to him, and that he was looking into her eyes. Then I heard another voice, calm and caustic as if feelings like my own lay at the bottom, suppressed but observant.
“In all this you overlook the real evil,” it said, “don’t you see, Irving, that while this child does not require so much care, the other is really suffering—nay, wounded?”
I felt a sharp pain in my arm, just above the elbow, as he spoke, forgotten till then in the more bitter pang at my heart; and through the mistiness that still crept over my eyes, I saw a slender stream of crimson trickling down and dropping from my fingers.
“She is hurt indeed—a shot has gone through her arm,” exclaimed Irving, and I felt through every nerve that he had put Cora away from his support almost forcibly, and was close by me. Young as I was, the master feeling of my nature awoke then, and I started from the wall, dizzy and confused, but determined that he should not touch me.
“It is nothing,” I said, winding my handkerchief around the arm, and turning haughtily away. “Come, Cora, shall we go?”
“Let me rest, Zana, I am so tired and frightened!” she said, and her beautiful eyes filled again.
Irving’s face flushed crimson as I repulsed his offered support, and though the look with which he regarded me was regretful, it was proud too. When Cora spoke in her sweet pleading way, he bent his eyes upon her with an expression of relief, but turned to me again.
“It is an accident; you cannot suppose I wounded you on purpose,” he said, pleadingly. “Why are you so unforgiving?”