“And she always professed to hold him in such contempt,” he said to himself. “Great heavens! Are all women alike in their weakness and folly?”
He reached the cottage at last, where all was now dark; but the door yielded to his touch, and he bore her in, and laid her, still insensible, upon the sofa.
Upon striking a light, and holding a candle toward her face, he uttered a deep sigh, for she was ghastly pale, her hair was wet and clinging to her temples, and he could see that she was covered with the sticky, yellowish clay of the field and lane. But he steeled his breast against her. It was her punishment, he felt; and treating her as if she were some patient and a stranger, he took off her wet cloak and hood, threw them aside, and proceeded to examine for the injury.
But little examination was necessary, and his brow grew more deeply lined as he quickly took out a knife, slit her wet boot from ankle to toe, and set her foot at liberty.
Then lighting another candle, he walked sharply into his surgery, and returned with splints and bandages, to find her eyes open, and that she was gazing at him wildly.
“Where am I? What is the matter?” she cried, hysterically. “This dreadful pain and sickness!”
“At home. Lie still,” he said, coldly. “Your ankle is badly hart.”
“Oh!” she sighed, and the tears began to flow, accompanied by a piteous sobbing, for the meaning of it all came back.
He went out again, and returned with a glass containing some fluid, then passing his hand beneath her head, he raised her a little.
“Drink this,” he said.