“Are—are any of my—my bones broken, do you know?” he asked.
“No. You are bruised, but not badly hurt. You will soon recover.”
“Ah!” said Stanford, with a sigh of relief. “By the way,” he added, with sudden interest, “who was that girl who stood near me as I lay on the beach?”
“There were several.”
“No, there was but one. I mean the girl with the beautiful eyes and a halo of hair like a glorified golden crown on her head.”
“We speak not of our women in words like those,” said the nurse, severely; “you mean Ruth, perhaps, whose hair is plentiful and yellow.”
Stanford smiled. “Words matter little,” he said.
“We must be temperate in speech,” replied the nurse.
“We may be temperate without being teetotal. Plentiful and yellow, indeed! I have had a bad dream concerning those who found me. I thought that they—but it does not matter. She at least is not a myth. Do you happen to know if any others were saved?”
“I am thankful to be able to say that every one was drowned.”