He knelt before her. This was his fault. She had fallen and hurt herself in trying to escape from him. It would have been kinder of him to have minded his own business.
“And you’ve walked all this distance on it!” he exclaimed. “I am a fool! Which is it? Sprained, do you think, or only a bit of a twist? May I feel? Let me bandage it or something.”
“The right,” she said. “I don’t think it’s seriously injured—but it hurts like anything—and I have to get home before—dawn.”
“Does that hurt?”
“Yes, yes!”
“I’m sorry. But it doesn’t seem to be swollen. Slightly, perhaps. A strain—I think that’s all. I’ll tie it tight. I have a simply huge handkerchief here. Just the thing. How does that feel?”
“Better—much better—thank you. I can go on now—slowly—a little way at a time.”
“No, you can’t. The weight of the snowshoe, the lift of it at every step, would play the mischief with it. I must take your snowshoes off and carry you.”
“You must not! It would kill you.”
“You are not heavy. And this is all my fault. You made this trip to warn me; and you hurt your ankle running away from me. All my fault—and I shall be glad to carry you, really.”