“Yes, yes!”
“Where is—where is he?” in terror.
“He cannot harm you now. He is gone.”
“But I saw his face just now. Oh, you are not telling me the truth!”
“You saw Turk's face, dearest. What a time we had in finding you! But you are safe now, thank God!”
She lay very still, striving to convince herself that she was awake and that she was really listening to Philip Quentin's voice, hoarse and eager. Her hand went to his face, impulsively searching for the features her eyes could not see. Strong ringers seized it, and dry, burning lips kissed it again and again—lips parched with fever. The heart of the woman asserted itself at once, and concern succeeded perplexity.
“Oh, Phil, you are ill—you should not be here!” she cried, in distress, and, before he could prevent she was on her feet, swaying dizzily.
“Then you are not hurt!” he cried. “Thank God for that!” His arm was about her waist, and a wave of security and contentment rolled through her being.
“Take me back to the castle, Phil,” she said, simply. “You will never know how unhappy I have been, how I have blamed myself for running away as I did. But, oh, I thought he was a priest, and I wanted to prove that you could not keep me there.”
“You do not have to stay there, Dorothy,” he said, slowly.