They laid Jerry on Blossom's bed, its coverings magically smoothed into comfort by her flying hands, and Joe Sanders once more pressed his pocket flask to the white lips.
The girl, buoyed up, beyond her strength, by the moment's need and the mettle of her blood, swiftly and capably eased the posture of the wounded man, loosened his heavy boots and rushed from the room to prepare fresh bandages. The stunning impact of despair would come later. Now every fighting chance must be preserved to him.
While she was still out of the room, Henderson's eyes opened in a fluttering and precarious consciousness, to find other eyes fixed on them with flaming intensity.
The basilisk gaze was fabulously reputed to bring death, but Turner Stacy was reversing its hypnotism to compel life.
"Where—am I?" whispered Jerry; and the answer was as peremptory as predestination.
"Ye're at Blossom's house—ter git married—an,' by God, ye've got ter last thet long. She's got ter believe ye come of yore own free will—see thet she does!"
The half-insensible eyes ranged vaguely about the place. The weak fingers plucked absently at the coverlet, and then essayed a gesture. The promoter seemed rallying his failing faculties for a supreme effort though his voice was hardly audible.
"But—Stacy—you don't—under—stand."
Bear Cat brought his face close; a face with belligerently out-thrust chin and fiercely narrowed eyes. Henderson must consent before Blossom returned to divine with her quick intuition that her dying lover balked in the shadow of death.
"Don't explain nothin' ter me. Save yore breath ter say 'I will.' Thet's all ye hev need ter utter now—an' hits need enough."