“Come might' nigh bein' a murder, by granny—from the marks on 'er neck—come might' nigh, all right!”
He sprinkled water lavishly upon her face, bethought him of a possible whisky flask in the haystack, and ran every step of the way there and back. He found a discarded bottle with a very little left in it, and forced the liquor down her throat.
“That'll fetch ye if anything will—he-he!” he mumbled, tittering from sheer excitement. Beyond a very natural desire to do what he could for her, he was extremely anxious to bring her to her senses, so that he could hear what had happened, and how it had happened.
“Betche Man got jealous of her'n Kenneth—by granny, I betche that's how it come about—hey? Feelin' better, Mis' Fleetwood?”
Val had opened her eyes and was looking at him rather stupidly. There was a bruise upon her head, as well as upon her throat. She had been stunned, and her wits came back slowly. When she recognized Polycarp, she tried ineffectually to sit up.
“I—he—is—he—gone?” Her voice was husky, her speech labored.
“Man, you mean? He's gone, yes. Don't you be afeared—not whilst I'm here, by granny! How came it he done this to ye?”
Val was still staring at him bewilderedly. Polycarp repeated his question three times before the blank look left her eyes.
“I—turned the calf—out—the cow—came and—claimed it—Manley—” She lifted her hand as if it were very, very heavy, and fumbled at her throat. “Manley—when I told him—he was a—thief—” She dropped her hand wearily to her side and closed her eyes, as if the sight of Polycarp's face, so close to hers and so insatiably curious and eager and cunning, was more than she could bear.
“Go away,” she commanded, after a minute or two. “I'm—all right. It's nothing. I fell. It was—the heat. Thank you—so much—” She opened her eyes and saw him there still. She looked at him gravely, speculatively. She waved her hand toward the bedroom. “Get me my hand glass—in there on the dresser,” she said.