White Bear neither spoke nor moved.
"Come in. It is raining. It is cold. You will die out here." She realized she was screaming at him.
"Oh!" she cried helplessly.
She sat on the ground, looking into the rain-slick, light-complexioned face with the strong nose and the long jaw that she had loved long ago, the face she had thought about so many times and had seen so often in dreams. A black crust of blood had dried over the place where her rock had gashed his cheek. On the same cheek a raised white line ran from just under his eye to the corner of his mouth.
To try to wake a man on a spirit journey could be dangerous for him.
But her hands seemed to have a will of their own. She had to touch him. She reached out, clutching his shoulders through the sopping blanket, heedless of the rain pouring down her own face, running under the collar of her doeskin shirt down her back and chest. She shook him.
"Get up! Come in out of the rain!"
His body felt lifeless when she shook him. But did she see a flicker in his eyes?
"Please, White Bear, please!"
He blinked.