He ran upstairs, took blankets from a bed, and put them before the fire to warm. Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbed her dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets. Then he went into the dining-room, to look for spirits. There was a little whisky. He drank a gulp himself, and put some into her mouth.
The effect was instantaneous. She looked full into his face, as if she had been seeing him for some time, and yet had only just become conscious of him.
“Dr. Fergusson?” she said.
“What?” he answered.
He was divesting himself of his coat, intending to find some dry clothing upstairs. He could not bear the smell of the dead, clayey water, and he was mortally afraid for his own health.
“What did I do?” she asked.
“Walked into the pond,” he replied. He had begun to shudder like one sick, and could hardly attend to her. Her eyes remained full on him, he seemed to be going dark in his mind, looking back at her helplessly. The shuddering became quieter in him, his life came back in him, dark and unknowing, but strong again.
“Was I out of my mind?” she asked, while her eyes were fixed on him all the time.
“Maybe, for the moment,” he replied. He felt quiet, because his strength had come back. The strange fretful strain had left him.
“Am I out of my mind now?” she asked.