She sprang to her husband’s side and bent over him. Presently she began to murmur to herself. When, finally, she turned, there were tears on her lashes, she was trembling visibly, and she spoke in whispers.
“Was I wrong?” she demanded brokenly. “I must have been. He’s not had it; I can tell by his quick, easy breathing. And his ear has a faint colour. You are trying to help him! I know! I know!”
A gleaming white line showed between the yellow of Fong Wu’s lips. He picked up a rude stool and set it by the table. She sank weakly upon it, letting the whip fall.
“Thank God! thank God!” she sobbed prayerfully, and buried her face in her arms.
Throughout the long hours that followed, Fong Wu, from the room’s shadowy rear, sat watching. He knew sleep did not come to her. For now and then he saw her shake from head to heel convulsively; as he had seen men in his own country quiver beneath the scourge of bamboos. Now and then, too, he heard her give a stifled moan, like the protest of a dumb creature. But in no other ways did she bare her suffering. Quietly, lest she wake her husband, she fought out the night.
Only once did Fong Wu look away from her. Then, in anger and disgust his eyes shifted to the figure on the table. “The petal of a plum blossom”—he muttered in Chinese—“the petal of a plum blossom beneath the hoofs of a pig!” And again his eyes dwelt upon the grief-bowed wife.
But when the dawn came stealing up from behind the purple Sierras, and Mrs. Barrett raised her wan face, he was studiously reviewing his rows of bottles, outwardly unaware of her presence.
“Fong Wu,” she said, in a low voice, “when will he wake?”
“When he is rested; at sunrise, maybe, or at noon.”
“And then?”