“I won’t!” declared Serena.
“Yes, you will!” said Geraldine.
She stood holding the stained scarf against her heart, and it was as if she held him, as if she were sheltering and defending the man who had done so gallant a thing for her. Wounded and suffering, his one thought had been for her—to protect her good name, to bring her safely home. He was helpless now, and it was her turn. Nothing else mattered. All her stern reserve, her stiff-necked dignity, her pride, were flung to the winds. She was ready to fight for him, to defy all the world for his sake.
“Send some one out for him at once!” she said. “He’s been shot—and I know who shot him. It was your—”
“Hush! Not so loud, you horrible girl!”
“I don’t care!” said Geraldine. “I don’t care who hears me! He’s been shot. He’s going to be brought in here and taken care of, no matter what it means to you or any one else. If you won’t do it, then I’m going to—”
“Wait!” whispered Serena. “Oh, what shall I do? Oh, can’t you see?”
“No!” said Geraldine. “I don’t care about anything but Sambo!”
IX
When young Randall opened his eyes again, he found himself back in his room at the Pages’. He lay still for a moment, remembering. The window was open, and the dark blue silk curtains fluttered, giving a glimpse of darkness outside. The room was filled with a mild, quiet light, however, and he felt sure that some one was there. He could not turn; his shoulder was stiff and painful, and a mortal weariness weighed him down. He tried to speak, and could not. All that he could manage was to draw one hand across the cover a little way.