"A poppy!... then that is why your hair has that mystic odour!... 'Give me of poppy and mandragora.'... Poppies give sleep ... I believe that is what I want ... I am a sick man ... like Peter's wife's mother, I am sick of a fever ... and you are—a girl ... O Lord God!"
"Oh, you really are ill!" she cried "Let me go to the house and get you something—some brandy. Rest here a while——"
"Rest here, by St. Anthony!... No, no, nothing, it's nothing ... I'll go." He sprang up and stood at his full height above her. She, too, rose on her feet. She put out her hands to him, but he did not take them.
"Good-night, Carissima ... I'll go home ... be good.... Girls should always be good ... and gates ... I must find the gate——"
Strangely he went, striding away as silently as he had come through the darkness, and leaving her standing there on the grass. Later, she flung herself down and burst into bitter crying.
"Oh, what a brute!... how I hate him!... how my heart hurts!... O God! what shall I do?... where has he gone?... I shall never see him again ... I wish to die! I wish to die!... Does he love some other woman?... Oh, I cannot live any longer ... he despises me because I am a girl.... How my heart hurts!... There is a knife in it.... If I could only hear him speak again!... I shall never see him again!"
Suddenly she sprang up and ran swiftly across the grass, in the direction he had gone—the direction of the gate. But the gate was a long way off, and the way was dim. She ran into trees, and hurt her feet on stones and thorns, and presently, as she ran, she stumbled and fell over something or someone lying prone on the grass. In horror and fear she sprang away, but the figure did not move, only breathed heavily. She stole closer and peered down. It was he. She recognised the tall figure, the pale-grey clothes, the faint aroma she had recently known.
"Oh, what has happened to you?" she tearfully cried, leaning over him. "Are you dead; are you dead?" Using her utmost strength she lifted his head and leaned it against herself as she half kneeled, half sat upon the grass. He was leaden-limbed as the dead, but his loud breathing reassured her; peering into his face she could see that his eyes were closed. She considered swiftly what thing she could do that would be best, presently resolving to run to the house and get brandy and restore him; and quinine, too, as he had asked for it—she knew that Abinger always kept a supply in his room. But first she would try and prop him against this tree-trunk. She dragged and strained at his arms, trying to move him, but he was a dead-weight. Tears of terror and distress streamed down her face and fell hot on his.
"My dear! my dear!" she cried. "What is it with you?" Just as she made to let his head gently to the ground again, he stirred, and his breathing changed to that of a conscious, wakened man. In a moment he had dragged himself up into a sitting pose, with the tree-trunk at his back. She still remained kneeling by him—breathless, glad, afraid, and he leaned his handsome head against the laces of her bosom.
"Are you better?" she whispered tremulously, joyously. "I am going to fetch you some restorative if you will let me leave you an instant."