CHAPTER FORTY
The Other Side of the Moon
The next thing that Loveland knew, he was sitting in a bog, which felt quite soft and comfortable, so comfortable that he at first believed himself to be in bed, waking out of a bad dream. Then with a flash he remembered all that had happened, and scrambled up in a cold sweat of fear for Lesley.
He was dripping with water and mossy mud, but though his limbs felt heavy and he staggered a little, his temples throbbing as if his brain were propelled by a steam engine, he was hardly conscious that his own body still existed. His one thought was of the girl.
A cataract of sparks which showered before his eyes dimmed his sight at first, but in a moment he saw a slight, grey-clad figure lying limply on the ground not far away. As for the motor-car which rested on its side at a little distance, its pleasant purring stilled, Loveland had forgotten all about it.
"Lesley!" he cried, as he ran to her. "Lesley!"
But she neither stirred nor answered.
Down he dropped on both knees beside her, and raised her head upon his arm. Her eyes were closed, and through the chiffon veil he could see the long lashes dark on the pallor of her cheeks.