Blake turned, spat, and burst out with a loud demand of Winthrope: “Quick! the little knife–I’ll have to slash it! Ten times worse than a rattlesnake– Lord! you’re slow–I’ll use mine!”
“Let go of me–let go! What do you mean, sir?” cried the girl, struggling to free herself.
“Hold still, you little fool!” he shouted. “It’s death–sure death, if I don’t get the poison from that bite!”
“I’m not bitten– Let go, I say! It struck in the fold of my skirt.”
“For God’s sake, Jenny, don’t lie! It’s certain death! I saw the mark–”
“That was a thorn. I drew it out an hour ago.”
Blake looked up into her hazel eyes. They were blazing with indignant scorn. He freed her, and rose with clumsy slowness. Again he glanced at her quivering, scarlet face, only to look away with a sheepish expression.
“I guess you think I’m just a damned meddlesome idiot,” he mumbled.
She did not answer. He stood for a little, rubbing a finger across his sun-blistered lips. Suddenly he stopped and looked at the finger. It was streaked with blood.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t stop to think of that! It’s just as well for me, Miss Jenny, that wasn’t an adder bite. A little poison on my sore lip would have done for me. Ten to one, we’d both have turned up our toes at the same time. Of course, though, that’d be nothing to you.”