Desmond opened his eyes first. “Is this Marshfielden?” he asked.
“It’s all right,” said Mr. Travers, the manager, kindly, and he offered him some more of the stimulant.
“Then I am alive?” He touched Mr. Travers’ hand. “God, I am among white people at last,” and he fell back again unconscious.
“The doc’s above,” said a man. “I’ve been on the ’phone. Beds are all prepared for them.”
So the two boys, wrapped in miners’ coats, were carried out into the sunlight once again. Alan, however, did not recover consciousness at all. He was worn out from hunger, fatigue and worry. Always the one to have a comforting word to cheer his companions, this last experience had been too much for him and he lay so still and quiet and cold, they feared it would be impossible to save him. And Jez-Riah? She had come to her senses and had called for Alan but the miners did not understand her, and drew away from her in fear.
“What shall we do with—it—her?” asked Mennell at last.
“Take her above and put her in Dr. Mackintosh’s care,” said Mr. Travers kindly.
“Right, sir.”
The day was perfect, the sun shining brightly, the sky was blue, a transparent blue, and the birds were singing gaily. The warmth of the sun’s rays came through the coat that was wrapped round Jez-Riah, and she struggled to be free of it. The men put her on the ground, and she stood, hands outstretched and gazed at the sun.
“Jovah. Har-Barim,” she cried, and smiled at the brightness all around.