Polly reeled and fell at the horse's side. She mounted and fell again. She rose and staggered in pursuit.
“I can't bear it,” groaned Douglas. He rushed into the ring, unconscious of the thousands of eyes bent upon his black, ministerial garb, and caught the slip of a girl in his arms just as she was about to sink fainting beneath the horse's hoofs.
Barker brought the performance to a halt with a crack of his whip. The audience stood on tiptoe. White-faced clowns and gaily attired acrobats crowded around Polly and the pastor.
Douglas did not see them. He had come into his own.
“He's bringin' her out,” whispered Eloise, who still watched at the entrance. Jim dared not look up, his head was still in his hands.
“Is it over?” he groaned.
“I don't know. I can't tell yet.” She stepped aside as Douglas came out of the tent, followed by a swarm of performers. He knelt on the soft grass and rested Polly's head upon his knee. The others pressed about them. It seemed to Douglas that he waited hours; then her white lids quivered and opened and the colour crept back to her lips.
“It's all right, Jim!” called one of the men from the crowd. “She's only fainted.” The big fellow had waited in his tracks for the verdict.
Polly's eyes looked up into those of the parson—a thrill shot through his veins.
“It was no use, was it?” She shook her head with a sad little smile. He knew that she was thinking of her failure to get out of his way.