XXIX. DOROTHY'S SOLUTION
Quentin carried her forth into the night. When Turk came upon him in the darkness a few minutes later, he was wandering about the hilltop, the limp figure of the woman he loved in his arms, calling upon her to speak to him, to forgive him. The little man checked him just in time to prevent an ugly fall over a steep embankment.
“My God, she's dead, Turk!” he groaned, placing her tenderly on the grassy sward and supporting her head with his arm. “The wretch has killed her.”
“He's paid for it, if he did. I guess it's nothin' but a faint er a fit. Does she have fits?” demanded Turk, earnestly. Quentin paid no heed to him, but feverishly began working with her, hope springing from Turk's surmise.
“Turk, if she dies, I swear to God I'll kill myself this night!” cried he.
“You're talkin' crazy, sir. She's comin' around all right, all right. Hear that? Her eyes'll be busy in a minute, and she'll be askin' where she's at. Just keeled over, that's all. All women does that w'en they git's as glad as she wuz. They faint 'cause it's easier'n it is to tell how much obliged they are. I know 'em. They pass up hard jobs like that ontil they gits time t' look all pale an' interestin' an' tuckered-out, an' then they ain't no use sayin' much obliged, 'cause th' man won't stand fer it a minute.”
Turk was kneeling opposite Quentin and was scratching match after match, holding them above the pale face until they burnt his finger tips. When Dorothy at last opened her eyes she looked into the most terrifying face she had ever seen, and, as the lids closed again spasmodically, a moan came from her lips. Turk's bristled face was covered with blood that had dried hours ago, and he was a most uncanny object to look upon. “Darn me, she's askeert of my mug! I'll duck ontil you puts her nex'.”
“Look up Dorothy! It is Phil! Don't be afraid, dearest; you are safe!” He knew that her eyes were open again, although it was too dark to see them.
“Is it you, Phil?” she whispered.