“Not dead!” exclaimed Hephzibah, in a distinctly disappointed tone.
This touch of involuntary humor restored the invalid. She tried to sit up, and lifted one hand to her hair, which seemed to have grown oppressively warm and unsettled. She brought away her fingers covered with blood.
“I am bleeding still,” she said. “What has happened, Hephzibah? Help me, please.”
The woman pointed impressively to a clumsy carved ornament lying near her, which had fallen from among several others placed on the rickety canopy of the bed.
“That struck you,” she said. “I thought it had killed you. ‘Judgment is mine,’ saith the Lord.”
Ursula staggered to her feet. She became conscious of the great dog standing close beside her—attentive, benevolent. His deep eyes met hers; they were overflowing with sympathy. Steadily gazing, he wagged his tail.
“Help me to my room,” commanded Ursula. “There is no necessity for saying anything more. Get me some water.” She gave her orders calmly, and the woman obeyed them. “Leave me,” said Ursula, at last, lying back on a sofa with a bandage over her brow.
As soon as she was alone she got up, still dizzy, and rang the bell.
“The brougham,” she said to the man.
He hesitated, in doubt if he could possibly have heard aright.