"And then, dear heart, what did you do?"
"I thought you were killed, and almost—almost I cursed him. I hope now I wasn't so wicked. But I—I—called back from God the promise I had given him."
"And then—tell me all the blessed truth—and then—"
"You were bleeding—bleeding—and I took off your clothes—and I saw where you were bleeding your life away, and I tied my dress around you. I tore it in pieces and wound it all around you as well as I could, and then I put your coat back on you, and still you didn't waken. It seemed as if you had stopped breathing. And then I saw the bruise on your head, and I thought maybe you were only stunned. I brought water from the branch and put your head on the wet cloth and bound it all around, but still you looked like he had killed you, and then—" he stirred in her arms to feel their clasp.
"And then—then—"
"I went for help," she said, in so low a tone it seemed hardly spoken.
"First you did something you have not told me."
She waited in a sweet shame he recognized and gloried in, but he wanted the confession from her lips.
"And then?"
"You said you would teach me to say things without words," she said tremulously.