He smiled a little, and with his broad, brown hand stroked back the spun silk of her hair, its mass transfixed by the raw gold pins he had found for her among the ruins of New York.
“No, no!” he objected. “It's nothing--it's not worth bothering about. I'll be all right in a day or two. My flesh heals almost at once, without any care. You don't realize how healthy I am.”
“I know, dear, but it must hurt you terribly!”
“Hurt? How could I feel any pain with your kiss on my mouth?”
“Come!” she again repeated with insistence, and pointed toward the beach where their banca lay on the sand.
“Come, I'll dress your wound first. And after I find out just how badly you're injured--”
He tried to stop her mouth with kisses, but she evaded him.
“No, no!” she cried. “Not now--not now!”
Allan had to cede. And now presently there he knelt on the fine white sand, his bearskin robe opened and flung back, his well-knit shoulder and sinewed arm bare and brown.
“Well, is it fatal?” he jested. “How long do you give me to survive it?” as with her hand and the cold limpid water of the Hudson she started to lave the caked blood away from his gashed triceps.