He sat down, almost at her feet, and fastened his collar, his eyes resting on her face. He had seen many beautiful women, this young man, but he thought, as he looked at her, that he had never seen any one so perfectly lovely.
With a vague feeling of wonder he noticed that her hair was dark, almost black, and yet her eyes were blue. They were hidden now between the long, dark lashes, and yet he knew they were blue, for he remembered noticing it in the first moments of wandering consciousness.
Was it this strange contrast, the blue eyes and black hair, that made her so lovely? Or was it the shape of the thin, delicate red lips? He tried to answer the mental question, but his brain seemed in a whirl.
It was not the effects of his fall, but the witchery of her presence.
She was so perfectly still, her face set in quiet gravity, that he feared to speak or move, lest he should disturb her. Then, suddenly, she looked up with a little start.
“I must go,” she said, almost to herself.
“Oh, no!” he pleaded. “Wait and rest for a little while!”
She turned her face toward him with a smile, but her eyes were half veiled by the long lashes.
“It is you that should rest,” she said.
“Oh! I’m all right,” he said. “But you have had a fright, and are—are upset, and no wonder. I’m afraid you’ll never forgive me,” he added, remorsefully.