“What will they do next?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said she. “We shall see, though.”
So we lay, gazing, not speaking. The sun streamed down, flattening the desert with his fervent beams until the uplifts cringed low and in the horizons the mountain peaks floated languidly upon the waves of heat. And in all this dispassionate land, from horizon to horizon, there were only My Lady and I, and 293 the beleaguering Sioux. It seemed unreal, a fantasy; but the rocks began to smell scorched, a sudden thirst nagged and my wounded arm pained with weariness as if to remind that I was here, in the body. Yes, and here she was, also, in the flesh, as much as I, for she stirred, glanced at me, and smiled. I heard her, saw her, felt her presence. I placed my hand over hers.
“What is it?” she queried.
“Nothing. I wanted to make sure.”
“Of yourself?”
“Of you, me—of everything.”
“There can be no doubt,” she said. “I wish there might, for your sake.”
“No,” I thickly answered. “If you were only out of it—if we could find some way.”
“I’d rather be in here, with you,” said she.