“She is alive—she is alive!” he said.
He did not seem to be aware of Norman’s presence, to be conscious of anything but the limp figure lying in his arms. He made a pillow of his coat, and they placed Esmeralda upon the litter and started for the hut, Trafford, as he bore one corner of the stretcher, bending over her with a distraught gaze. They went slowly, picking every step, and almost in silence. Varley walked with bent head and shoulders, crushed by this last blow from the hand of Fate.
They reached the hut at last, and the woman, hearing their steps, came out to meet them; she uttered one cry at sight of the motionless figure of the brave girl, then helped them place her on the bed and silently drew a curtain before it. Trafford sunk on a chair and hid his face in his hands; Varley leaned against the wall as if utterly exhausted, as indeed he was; Simon looked from one to the other grimly.
“I’ll trouble you for that two hundred, Varley Howard,” he said, laconically.
Varley started, drew the bag containing the money from his pocket, and handed it to him without a word.
The woman came from behind the curtain.
“She’s alive,” she said in a low voice, and with her eyes fixed upon the ground. “You’d better fetch a doctor.”
“I will go,” said Norman, abruptly.
Both Trafford and Varley started as if to go also; but Norman waved them back.
“No, no; you stay here. She may want you, if she comes to.”