“Am I hurting you?” she asked, anxiously, for she had felt him quiver.
“Not a bit—the cool water feels delightful. You see it is only a scratch,” he added, when the clotted blood had been cleared away. “It will be quite well in two or three days. I shan’t even have a scar! I think it might have left a scar! What’s the use of being wounded, if one hasn’t a scar to show for it? And I shall probably never be under fire again!”
She smiled wanly, and a little color crept back into her face.
“How you frightened me!” she said. “I came through the bushes and saw you sitting there, all covered with blood! You might have told me—it was foolish to lie there all night without binding it up. Suppose you had bled to death!” and she wrung out the handkerchief, shook it out in the breeze until it was nearly dry, and bound it tightly over the wound. “How does that feel?”
“It feels splendid! Really it does,” he added, seeing that she regarded him doubtfully. “If I feel the least little twinge of pain, I will notify you instantly. I give you my word!”
They sat for a moment silent, gazing into each other’s eyes. It was the girl who stirred first.
“I will go to the edge of the wood and reconnoiter,” she said, rising a little unsteadily, “while you wash your hands and face. Or shall I stay and help?”
“No,” said Stewart, “thank you. I think I am still able to wash my own face—that is, if you think it’s any use to wash it!” and he ran his fingers along his stubbly jaws. “Do you think you will like me with a beard?”
“With a beard or without one, it is all the same!” she answered, softly, and slipped quickly away among the trees, leaving Stewart to make what he could of this cryptic utterance.
Despite his gnawing hunger, despite his stiff shoulder and sore muscles, he was very, very happy as he bent above the clear water and drank deep, and bathed hands and face. How good it was to be alive! How good it was to be just here this glorious morning! With no man on earth would he have changed places!