"Yes," he answers, bending down to her.
"You have been a good friend to me. Will you continue to do what I wish?"
She speaks very slowly, with a pause between each word. She feels that consciousness is departing from her, that her strength has utterly left her, that she cannot walk another dozen yards. But she has something to say, and by a supreme effort of will--only to be summoned in such a bitter crisis as this in her young life--she retains her senses until it is said.
"I will do as you wish," says John, supporting her fainting form, and knowing instinctively, as he places his arms about her, that it is almost death to her that he shall touch her.
"I cannot walk another step. My strength is gone."
"What must I do?"
"Take me to that porch. Lay me there--and leave me."
"Leave you!"
"If you raise me in your arms, I shall die! If you attempt to carry me into the town, I shall die! If you do not obey me, I shall die, and think of you as my enemy!"
He listens in awe. He has never heard language like this--he has never heard a voice like this.