“Frances!” a voice cried sharply, and she stopped, stopped even her breathing, to listen. “Stop talking that absurd rot! Be sensible! Try to be sensible!”
“I am only—praying,” she said.
“Well, don’t! It isn’t the time for saying prayers. I want you to attend to me. You know what has happened?”
His voice sounded curt and imperious. She peered into the darkness, wishing she could see his face.
“I don’t know,” she made answer wonderingly. “How should I know?”
“I brought you here,” he said. “You fainted.”
“How stupid of me!” she murmured apologetically.
“It was rather.” His voice was grim. “But you’ve got back your senses, and for heaven’s sake keep them! This is just an old cattleshed on the moors and it’s all the shelter we shall get to-night.”
“Oh!” said Frances, and in her voice dismay and relief were strangely mingled. “It was better than the open moor. But yet—but yet——”
He spoke again with a species of humorous ruefulness. “Here we are, and here we’ve got to stay! That damned fog has defeated us. We can’t hope to move before morning.”