Val sat down on an adjoining rock and proceeded to help her. Her position was not a pleasant one.
“But you must suffer very much, I am afraid,” he said, as little by little he drew the small arm from its uncomfortable place. “You must tell me if I hurt you.”
“It all hurts a little,” Polly said, wincing beneath his touch. “My hand and wrist are so swollen that I am afraid the arm is broken. Is it?”
He felt it tenderly from wrist to shoulder, and as far as he could judge, there was nothing broken or displaced, either.
“You must be badly bruised,” he said.
“I am,” Polly observed, quietly. “I am as—as Mrs. Blaine would say, a mask of bruises. I am rather glad you came, you know, Mr. Ambleton. I was making up my mind I should have to stay here all night, and then, I suppose, by the morning I should not have been here at all, seeing that the tide comes in at midnight.”
“How long have you been like this?” asked Valentine, unable to withstand the witching delight of the situation, even though she was suffering, and her heart was closed against him.
“I think it must have been a month,” Polly said, thoughtfully.
“I want to get you up on your feet. Can you stand?”
“If I lean on you; but I expect you won’t like that. I am very heavy, you know.”