As Merry placed the unconscious girl gently on the ground, calling for a doctor, Inza stirred, moaned, and opened her eyes. Instantly he had her in his arms again. She saw him and recognized him.
“Frank!” she whispered faintly, like the sighing of a distant breeze.
“Inza!” he answered—“Inza, my sweetheart, my love!”
A look of untold happiness appeared on her beautiful face. It had been long, long years since such words passed his lips, but now once more he called her his sweetheart, as he had that night over the gate in Fardale.
And there was far more in his tone than in the mere words. His voice spoke all the deep passion of his nature, and in that moment she knew once more that his heart belonged to her, and to her alone.
She did not realize at once what had happened. She knew some dreadful thing had taken place, but, somehow, she felt that it had restored to her the lover of her girlhood days, and she was happy. His arms were about her—those iron arms which had won many a hard-fought battle for Yale, and that brave heart that had never faltered or known fear in the face of the mightiest obstacle or danger beat against her own.
There was a step close at hand, and a man stopped near them.
“So you got out, Merriwell!” said a voice. “Is that Inza? Is she hurt?”
It was Swift.
One look of scorn Merry gave the fellow, but no word did he speak in reply.