But she saw that he was still groping in the dark. He lifted his right hand, and touched his head, while the expression of perplexity grew rather than lessened on his face. She saw that there was not only a gash in the left temple, but a furrow on the right side of his head, a swollen red streak where the hair had been burned away. And the black stains on the handkerchief, and the revolver clutched in his hand.
“Philip!” she said softly, reproachfully.
“I don’t understand!” he reiterated, and closed his eyes.
She studied him, and the place where he lay, and the dead pony; the two wounds in his head, the bloody handkerchief––And it was only partly clear to her. He had fallen, and been hurt; but Philip, as she knew him, would have made nothing of that cut on his temple. Why, then, had he abandoned the pursuit, and tried to kill himself?
A groan escaped him.
“What is it, Philip?” she asked.
“You’re hurting me!” he answered, opening his eyes again.
“Hurting you?” she exclaimed. “No! Where?”
“My leg’s broken.”