“How did you stop it? You must be hurt, crushed, bruised.”
“My arm’s wrenched—not badly.” He had in fact wrenched it slightly.
“Your poor arm! You were so quick, so strong. You didn’t think of your own life. And I’ve been so cruel. Hugh, Hugh, kiss me.”
Hugh took his reward, none the less sweet to his strange nature, in that it was only potentially earned. And joy, like a warm flood, crept up again to his heart. He sat on the hillside and held his small love close. One of his arms moved stiffly, and he groaned a little. She rubbed it for him.
“You’d better come home and let Bella and me fix it. It may be badly hurt. You’re sure it isn’t broken?” she asked.
“Quite sure.”
“Lean on me! I’ll help you down. You can tell me where to step.”
“Nonsense,” he laughed, his very blood singing warm with relief. “A strained arm won’t hurt my walking apparatus. We had a lover’s quarrel, didn’t we? And the boulder was peacemaker. Bless the boulder!”
“Don’t joke, dear. You saved my life at the risk of your own. Are you always doing insane, generous, dangerous things? Think if you had been—” She shivered.
“Do you suppose my life is worth anything to me without yours, Sylvie?” He bent his head and kissed her again, but he had learned his lesson, and there was restraint and timidity in that kiss.