He calmed like a ferocious dog at the voice of its master; but it was several minutes before he could bring himself to obey her insistent urging that he should return to the injured man.
“I’ll go,” he at last growled. “Wouldn’t do it even for you, but he’s good as dead–lucky for him!”
“Dead!”
“Dying. . . . . You stay away.”
He went around the baobab and a few paces along the cleft to the place where a limp form lay huddled on the ledges, out of the mud. Slowly, as though drawn by the fascination of horror, the girl crept after him. When she saw the broken, storm-beaten thing that had been Winthrope, she stopped, and would have turned back. After all, as Blake had said, he was dying–
When she stood at the feet of the writhing figure, and looked down into the battered face, it required all her will-power to keep from fainting. Blake frowned up at her for an instant, but said nothing.
Winthrope was speaking, feebly and brokenly, yet distinctly: “Really, I did not mean any harm–at first–you know. But a man does not always have control–”
“Not a beast like you!” growled Blake.
“Ow! Don’t ’it me! I say now, I’m done for! My legs are cold already–”
“Oh, quick, Mr. Blake! build a fire! It may be, some hot broth–”