With a new fear tugging at him, Baird watched the moisture gather on her forehead and about her lips and noted the utter laxness of her hands and the weighted heaviness of her eyelids. Was she slipping into unconsciousness again? He bent over her.
"Ann, does your back hurt?" he begged.
She breathed rather than spoke the word, "No—"
"Do you feel any pain?"
She moved her head in denial.
"You're sleepy—that's all?"
She did not answer.
If she had fainted, it was a warm breathing unconsciousness like the sleep of exhaustion. And she had said she was not in pain.... As he listened to her regular breathing Baird gradually lost his fear; nature was helping her now. He loosened the hot thing in which she was wrapped, and sat with her hand in his; if she grew feverish he would know it. There was nothing over which he could exert himself; he must simply wait; sit there till morning, if no one came.
For the first time since the struggle had begun Baird thought of himself. He was fearfully tired, sore and aching and wet; he was wet and caked with mud almost to his waist. He was experiencing the reaction. Depression settled upon him.... So it was Edward she loved. That sort of love would hold for a long time; there was no hope for him.... That she had not been crushed or broken was one of the wonders, but she was not out of danger—her spine might be injured.... A wave of anger swept Baird, arousing him a little from depression: where were her people throughout all this tragedy? Why had they left her alone in the house for Garvin to mislead? For that must have been the way of it—he had told her a half-truth in order to get her away.... Then he sank back into depression.
When the clock struck two, Baird looked up at the slowly-traveling hands; the next would be the deadest hour of the night.