When Estelle's eyes opened, she returned from peace to wretchedness. Yes, the trees and the night and the swollen feet were real. She crawled toward the farm-house; something within her warned her not to try to rise. She lived months in dragging that hundred yards; the one goal of life was the low stoop and the door under the light. When she reached it,—her clothes torn, the dust ground into her face and hands,—she fainted again, and clung to the steps.
Dirck van Deelen was sitting at the window with a shot-gun across his knees. He had watched the—he could not see what it was—crawling to his door. Now he looked out and saw it lying there. Whatever, whoever it was, this would not do; so he opened the door and carried her up to the room where his frightened wife was trying to sleep.
“We 'll have to take her in, Saskia.”
“What is the matter? Is she hurt?”
“I don't know. I found her on the stoop. Help me examine her.”
But they found no mark of bullet, knife, or blunt instrument. And while the Dutch woman worked over her, the man went for water. At last she was brought to a sort of consciousness, and, leaving his wife to care for her, Van Deelen returned to his window and his gun.
Roche and Estelle had not been gone an hour when McGlory, haunted by the fear of pursuit, awoke. He stretched himself, sat up, and looked over to the spot where Estelle had been lying when he fell asleep. At first he thought he saw her, a darker shadow, but on rising and walking over he found no sign of her. He looked about, and called. Roche, too, was not in sight. He hesitated, not yet fully awake, then turned back and woke his companion.
“Well, what's the matter?”
“They're gone.”