I wondered if the village would ever come. It seemed as if someone had moved it since the morning.
About the first house was the old Lamb Inn, with its large stable yard. There stood a lonely brougham, horseless with upturned shafts. The yard was deserted.
She slipped on the cobbles, as we turned in, and almost brought me down.
"Go on," she gasped. "I'll—"
I picked her up and ran to the brougham. The humming was very loud. To fling open the door and push her in was the work of a moment. Then I stumbled in after her and slammed the door. As I pulled up the window, several bees dashed themselves buzzing against it.
Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. We lay back against the cushions sobbing and gasping for breath, while more bees pattered against the windows.
Presently I stole a glance at my companion. She was leaning back in her comer, still breathing hard with her eyes shut. But she seemed to know I was looking at her, for the soft lips parted in a smile. But she did not open her eyes.
I laid a hand on her arm.
"How's the ankle?" I said. "You turned it, didn't you?"
"Yes, but it's not very bad, thanks. I think you saved my life."