“No,” he groaned, his head in his hands. “Don’t! You mustn’t do that!”
At the somber note she turned and looked at him keenly. She could not see his face, but the fingers that hid it were trembling.
“You’re ill!” she gasped. “Your body is shaking.”
He sat up with an effort and his face was the color of ashes.
“No, it’s nothing. Just a chill, I think. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
But she put her arm around him and made him sit on the log nearest to the fire.
“This won’t do at all,” she said anxiously. “You’ve got to take care of yourself—to let me take care of you. Here! You must drink this.”
She had taken the flask from her pocket and before he knew it had thrust it to his lips. He hesitated a moment, his eyes staring into space and then without question, drank deep, his eyes closed.
And as the leaping fires went sparkling through his body, he set the vessel down, screwed on the lid and put it on the log beside him. Two dark spots appeared beneath the tan and mounted slowly to his temples, two red spots like the flush of shame. An involuntary shudder or two and the trembling ceased. Then he sat up and looked at her.