It did not take Bert an instant to consider what he should do. He snatched a sheet from the bed, wrapped it round and round the raw, bleeding back, then possessed himself of the dark woollen coverlet, and rolled the slight, unresisting form therein. Lifting her as easily as one might a child, he carried her to the skylight, managed, with the help of a broken chair, to get her and himself through it, and in a moment was descending the ladder, clasping all the happiness the world held for him in his arms, his whole heart one white flame of pity and indignation.
CHAPTER VIII
THE RESCUE
"She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighéd deep,
And there I shut her sad, wild eyes—
So kissed to sleep.
"... And I awoke, and found me here,
On the cold hillside."
—JOHN KEATS.
Rapid transit through the night air, and the pain of her open wounds, brought back consciousness to Millie.
She was light and small, but for all that, she was some weight to carry far; and when she began to writhe and twist in his hold, Bert was obliged to call a halt. He sat down, after a few ineffectual attempts to soothe her, on a hummock of ground by the roadside, cradling her as easily as he could upon his knees.
"What's happened? What's happened?" she began to stammer, evidently not quite knowing what she said. "It's dark! it's dark! Light the candle, one of you! ... O-o-oh!"
It was a long-drawn wail of agony.
Bert was very white. His heart was hammering, but the heat and wild rage of the past half-hour had passed away, and now he was all gathered into himself like a coiled spring. Everything, he believed, hung upon his ability to make the most of this chance, this hour that he had snatched for himself. The awkward self-consciousness which held him, as a rule, tongue-tied before her, was clean gone; only the concentrated force of his will remained.