"Are you there?" said the voice again, quite close to her.
"Yes, I am here, but I cannot move; the branches hold me down."
"Wait a moment. I will get a light."
She was lying on her back, and, turning her head a little, she could see a match struck and the face it illuminated—a strong, dark, clean-shaven face; a close-cropped, dark, uncovered head. The match was held over her for a moment, then it went out.
"I see where you are," said the rescuer, "we must try to get you out. Are you hurt?"
"I have hurt my side, I think," she said.
Without more words he knelt down beside her and began to tear away and loosen the short, sturdy branches; then he took her under the shoulders, and drew her slowly along the ground. There was a great rending and tearing in every direction of her delicate garments; but at last she was free of the clinging thorns and branches.
"I am afraid the thorns have scratched you a good deal," he said in a very matter-of-fact voice. "Will you try if you can stand up now? Lean on me."
Elma scrambled to her feet, and stood leaning against him—a glimmering, ghostly figure, whose tattered garments were happily hidden by the darkness.
"Do you think you can manage to climb back to the road now?" he asked; "there may be snakes about here, you know."