“Oh, Mr. Winthrope!” she exclaimed; “please don’t! In your weak condition, I’m so afraid–”
“Do not alarm yourself. I am perfectly well, and I am quite as competent to judge what is good for me as your–ah–countryman.”
“Mr. Winthrope, I am thinking only of your own good.”
Winthrope took another deep draught, rinsed his fingers fastidiously, and arose.
“My dear Miss Genevieve,” he observed, “a woman looks at these matters in such a different light from a man. But you should know that there are some things a gentleman cannot tolerate.”
“You were welcome to all the water in the flask. Surely with that you could have waited, if only to please me.”
“Ah, if you put it that way, I must beg pardon. Anything to please you, I’m sure! Pray forgive me, and forget the incident. It is now past.”
“I hope so!” she murmured; but her heart sank as she glanced at his sallow face, and she recalled his languid, feeble movements.
Piqued by her look, Winthrope started back through the glade. Miss Leslie was turning to follow, when she caught sight of a gorgeous crimson blossom under the nearest tree. It was the first flower she had seen since being shipwrecked. She uttered a little cry of delight, and ran to pluck the blossom.
Winthrope, glancing about at her exclamation, saw her stoop over the flower–and in the same instant he saw a huge vivid coil, all black and green and yellow, flash up out of the bedded leaves and strike against the girl. She staggered back, screaming with horror, yet seemed unable to run.