“I’m not really going to eat you, you know,” he said again, smiling.
“I—I’m glad,” she stammered with a queer little smile. “I didn’t know what you were. I’m afraid I—I’ve been very much frightened.”
“You were lost, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She struggled to her knees and then sank back again.
“Well, there’s really nothing to be frightened about. It’s almost too late to try to find your friends to-night, but if you’ll come with me I’ll do my best to make you comfortable.”
He had risen and offered her his hand, but when she tried to rise she winced with pain.
“I—I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “I think I—I’ve twisted my ankle.”
“Oh, that’s awkward,” in concern. “Does it hurt you very much?”
“I—I think it does. I can’t seem to use it at all.” She moved her foot and her face grew white with the pain of it.
Gallatin looked around him vaguely, as though in expectation that Joe Keegón or somebody else might miraculously appear to help him, and then for the first time since he had seen her, was alive again to the rigors of his own predicament.