When Zen came to herself it was with a sense of a strange swimming in her head. Gradually it resolved itself into a sound of water about her head; a splashing, fighting water; two heads in the water; two heads in the water; a lash floating in the water—
“Oh!” She was sure she felt water on her face....
“Where am I?”
“You’re all right—you’ll be all right in a little while.”
“But where am I? What has happened?” She tried to sit up. All was dark. “Where am I?” she demanded.
“Don’t be alarmed, Zen—I think your name is Zen,” she heard a man’s voice saying. “You’ve been hurt, but you’ll be all right presently.”
Then the curtain lifted. “You are Dennison Grant,” she said. “I remember you now. But what has happened? Why am I here—with you?”
“Well, so far, you’ve been enjoying about three hours’ unconsciousness,” he told her. “At a distance which seems about a mile from here—although it may be less—is a little pond. I’ve carried water in the sleeve of my coat—fortunately it is leather—and poured it somewhat generously upon your brow. And at last I’ve been rewarded by a conscious word.”
She tried to sit up, but desisted when a sudden twitch of pain held her fast.
“Let me help you,” he said, gently. “We have camped, as you may notice, on a big, flat rock. I found it not far from the scene of the accident, so I carried you over to it. It is drier than the earth, and, for the forepart of the night at least, will be warmer.” With a strong arm about her shoulders he drew her into a sitting posture.