The wind, now freshening to a gale, struck the girl with such force that she would have been blown back down the ledges had not Blake clutched her wrist. Heedless alike of the painful grip which held her and of the gusts which tore at her skirt, the girl stood gazing out across the desolate swamps which stretched away to the southwest as far as the eye could see. She did not speak until Blake led her down behind the shelter of the crest ledges.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Didn’t I warn you?”
She looked away to hide the tears which sprang into her eyes.
“I can’t explain–only, it makes me feel so–so lonely!”
“Oh, come now, little woman; don’t take on so!” he urged. “It might be a lot worse, you know. We’ve gotten along pretty well, considering.”
“You have been very kind, Mr. Blake, and as you say, matters might have been worse. I do not forget how far more terrible was our situation the morning after the storm. Yet you must realize how disappointing it is to lose even the slightest hope of escape.”
“Well, I don’t know. If it wasn’t for the fever that’s bound to come with the rains, I, for one, would just as leave stick to this camp right along, providing the company don’t change.”
She turned upon him with flashing eyes, all thought of caution lost in her anger. “How dare you say such a thing? You are contemptible! I despise you!”
“My, Miss Jenny, but you are pretty when you get mad!” he exclaimed.
The answer took her completely aback. He was neither angry nor laughing at her, but met her defiant glance with candid, sober admiration. There was something more than admiration in his glowing eyes; yet she could not but see that her alarm had been baseless. His manner had never been more respectful. Suddenly she found that she could no longer meet his gaze. She looked away and stammered lamely, “You–you shouldn’t say such things, you know.”