Escape from this should be made at all hazards; and the long, incredibly fearful flight, with pursuit always pressing hot upon her, the evil fangs of the wolf-pack snapping in the air all about her frightened ears, led to a peaceful, soft-carpeted forest, where the low setting sun spread a red light among the big tree-trunks. Against this deep, far-distant sky there was the figure of a man coming. For him she waited with a song in her heart. Did she not know him? It was Reuben Tracy, and he was too gentle and good not to see her when he passed. She would call out to him—and lo! she could not.
Horace was with her, and held her hand; and they both gazed with terrified longing after Tracy, and could not cry out to him for the awful dumbness that was on them. And when he, refusing to see them, spread out his arms in anger, the whole great forest began to sway and circle dizzily, and huge trees toppled, rocks crashed downward, gaunt giant reptiles rose from yawning caves with hideous slimy eyes in a lurid ring about her. And she would save Horace with her life, and fought like mad, bleeding and maimed and frenzied, until the weight of mountains piled upon her breast held her down in helpless, choking horror. Then only came the power to scream, and—
Out of the roar of confusion and darkness came suddenly a hush and the return of light. She was lying in the curtained bed, and a tender hand was pressing soft cool linen to her lips.
Opening her eyes in tranquil weakness, she saw two men standing at her bedside. He who held the cloth in his hand was Dr. Lester, whom she remembered very well. The other—he whose head was bowed, and whose eyes were fastened upon hers with a pained and affrighted gaze—was Horace Boyce.
In her soul she smiled at him, but no answering softness came to his harrowed face.
“I told your father everything,” she heard the doctor say in a low tone. “I recognized her on the instant. I happened to have attended her, by the merest chance, when her child was born.”
“Her child?” the other asked, in the same low, far-away voice.
“Yes—and your child. He is in Thessaly now, a boy nearly six years old.”
“Good God! I never knew—”
“You seem to have taken precious good care not to know,” said the doctor, with grave dislike. “This is the time and place to speak plainly to you, Boyce. This poor girl has come to her death through the effort to save you from disgrace. She supposed you lived here, and dragged herself here to help you.” Jessica heard the sentence of doom without even a passing thought. Every energy left in her feebly fluttering brain was concentrated upon the question, Is he saved? Vaguely the circumstances of the papers, of the threats against Horace, of her desires and actions, seemed to come back to her memory. She waited in dazed suspense to hear what Horace would say; but he only hung his head the lower, and left the doctor to go on.