“Yes alone. I am afraid to stay and am going in any case; if not with you, to hamper you, then by a different road.”
Her eyes clouded and she gave a little nervous start. “I am punished; but I—I didn’t mean that,” she said very slowly.
“I know. If I had not seen your real motive I might have been content to stay. Nothing would have mattered then.”
“Burgwan!” Quick protest and some dismay were in her tone; and the colour rushed to her cheeks. “I will go and see if Karasch is ready,” she added, and hurried away.
Had I said too much and offended her? I sat looking after her some moments, in somewhat anxious doubts and fears, and yet conscious of a strange feeling of exhilaration.
Then with a sigh of perplexed discontent I threw back the rug, rolled off the bed, and got on my feet. I was abominably weak. My brain swam with every movement I made, so that the place whirled about me until I must have nearly fainted. My leg was stiff and painful where that treacherous brute had run his knife into me. I remember looking at the bed with a sort of feverish longing to get back on to it almost impossible to resist as I clung to the tent pole to steady myself and let my head clear.
“It’s got to be done, Chris, old man,” I said to the old dog, who was standing by me; and after a struggle resolution lent me strength, and I ventured at length to do without the support of the pole and began to limp slowly and painfully up and down. If there had been no one but myself to think about I should have given in and just lain down again to let happen what might.
But the thought of Mademoiselle’s danger was tonic enough to keep me going; and when I heard Karasch and her outside, I managed to crawl to the opening of the tent to meet them.
“We are ready, you see, Chris and I,” I said.
Mademoiselle said nothing, but the look in her eyes was full of sweet sympathy and deep anxiety.