“You turn it skilfully,” I said. “At least, I hope you will discourage any more such compliments.”
“Very well,” she agreed; “I promise. But we must be getting on;” and she attempted to rise.
I caught her arm and held her in her seat.
“We must be doing no such thing!” I retorted. “It is worse than foolish to plunge ahead as we have been doing, half-starved. You are going to remain here and rest. I will make you a bed of grass and leaves in this little hollow, and you will lie here quietly and gaze at the stars, thinking of me as kindly as you can, while I go in search of food. I shall not be long away, and you will be quite safe.”
She sat without answering, watching me while I piled such dry grass as I could find into the little hollow. At last it was ready.
“Now,” I said, turning to her, “if you will rest here——”
“You are very good to me,” she breathed, and took her place upon the couch I had provided, which, I fear, was none too soft.
“Oh, no,” I answered, controlling myself with a mighty effort as I bent above her and assured myself that her cloak was snug about her; “I am not wholly unselfish. I must keep you fresh; I must not permit you to exhaust yourself, or you will be getting ill, and then what should I do?”
“No, I shall not be ill,” she said quite positively. “I am not such a weakling as that!”
“Besides,” I added, “I am frightfully hungry; I must have something to eat, if I commit murder for it.”