“No—I won't,” he said. “It's rotten—of me—to act—like this and—scare you—to death. Give me—a little—time. I will be—all right.”
“If they would only come! If I could only do something!”
“You're all right—Kathleen. Just be—patient with me—a bit. I am feeling—better every minute.”
For a few moments he lay quiet. Then with a little smile he looked up at her again and said, “I would go off again just to hear you say those words once more.”
“Oh, please don't,” she entreated, hiding her face.
“Forgive me, Kathleen, I am a beast. Forget it. I am feeling all right. I believe I could sit up.”
“No, no, no,” she cried. “Lie a little longer.”
She laid his head down, ran a hundred yards to the wheat field, returning with two sheeves, and made a support for his head and shoulders. “That is better,” she said.
“Good work,” he said. “Now I am going to be fit for anything in a few moments. But,” he added, “you look rather badly, as if you might faint yourself.”
“I? What difference does it make how I look? I am quite right. If they would only come! I know what I will do,” she cried. “Where are your cartridges?” She loaded the gun and fired in quick succession half a dozen shots. “I think I see them,” she exclaimed, “but I am not sure that they heard me.” Again she fired several shots.