"Is that where you were lost two days?"
"My horse got away. Have you hurt your hand?"
She was holding her right hand in her left. "I tore my glove on a thorn, coming up. It is not much."
"Is it bleeding?"
"I don't know; can you see?"
She drew down the glove gauntlet and held her hand up. If his breath caught he did not betray it, but while he touched her she could very plainly feel his hand tremble; yet for that matter his hand, she knew, trembled frequently. He struck a match. It was no part of her audacity to betray herself, and she stepped directly between the others and the little blaze and looked into his face while he Inspected her wrist. "Can you see?"
"It is scratched badly, but not bleeding," he answered.
"It hurts."
"Very likely; the wounds that hurt most don't always bleed," he said, evenly. "Let us go."
"Oh, no," she said; "not quite yet. This is unutterable. I love this."