I gasped. I had absolutely forgotten the other woman.
She was lying not far from us in a little hollow of the long grass, and for the moment I thought that she was dead. The sallow, foreign face was yellow white, the plump hands were gripped, as if in some past convulsive agony, above her head, and this same muscular rigidity seemed to underlie incongruously every formless line of the flabby body.
Miss Tabor's hand trembled upon my arm. "Do you think that she—that she is dead?" she whispered.
I stooped to the woman's wrist. The pulse came faintly with a dull throb that was unbelievably slow. But as I still fumbled the pulpy hand caught mine in a grip that made me wince, the bloodless lips stirred in a shuddering moan, and without opening her eyes she spoke.
"It is hard, hard," she said, "there is too much light. Will some one turn down the light?" A long convulsive tremor ran over the entire body and the hand in mine struggled in anguish.
Miss Tabor shivered.
"I am afraid that she is very much hurt," I said as gently as I could. I was ashamed of myself, but fear seemed to clutch me. Then I gave myself a mental shake and caught my hat from the ground. "You will have to stay with her, I suppose, while I get some water. You might loosen her dress." It was all that I could think of.
Miss Tabor knelt to the work without a word, and I made off across the meadow to the pool, running at my best speed.
In a moment I was back again and dashed what little water my hat still held over the twitching, yellow face.
The eyelids fluttered and lack-luster eyes looked into mine. The woman gasped and sat up.