"What's the matter, Harriet?"
"He has fainted—I don't know, he may be dead. Look, mother!"
Mrs. Floyd raised Westerfelt's head and turned his face upward.
"No, he's still breathing." She opened his shirt hastily. "His wound has not broken; we must get him to bed again. How did he happen to be here?"
"He got up as soon as the Whitecaps came; I couldn't persuade him to go back."
"We must carry him to the bed," said Mrs. Floyd. As they started to raise him, Westerfelt opened his eyes, took a long breath, and sat up. Without a word he rose to his feet, and between them was supported back to his bed.
"His feet are like ice," said Mrs. Floyd, as she tucked the blankets round him. "Why did you let him stand there?"
"It wasn't her fault, Mrs. Floyd," explained Westerfelt, with chattering teeth. "I knew they meant trouble, and thought I ought to be ready."
"You ought to have stayed in bed." Her eyes followed Harriet to the fireplace. "No, daughter," she said, "go lie down; I'll stay here."
"I'd rather neither of you would sit up on my account," protested Westerfelt; "I'm all right; I'll sleep like a log till breakfast. I don't want to be such a bother."