He felt a pang of agony. When both expected to die he had neither fear nor sorrow; now she was about to die alone and leave him!
"Sylvia! Sylvia!" he cried. "It is not death! You cannot go!"
He rubbed her hands violently, and even her cheeks. He called to her over and over again, and she awoke from her numbing torpor.
"It was beginning to be like an easy sleep," she said.
"That is what we must fight," said Harley.
He brushed up all the leaves at the mouth of the hollow as a sort of barrier, and he believed that it gave help. Then he sat down on a small ledge of stone and leaned against the wall.
"Sylvia," he said, "I want you to live, and you cannot live if this cold creeps into your body again. Sit here."
She hesitated, and in the darkness he did not see her blush.
"Why should you not? It may be our last day."
He drew her down upon his knees, then closer to him, and put his arms around her. Presently he could feel her face against his, and it was cold no longer. Neither spoke nor moved, but Harley could feel that she was warm, and he could hear her soft, regular breathing. After a while he stirred a little, and he found that she was asleep. Her hands and face were still warm. He did not move again. She spoke once in her sleep, and all that she said was his name.