She cried out at sight of him with a heart of joy, but as he lurched nearer she slid from the horse and ran toward him. Could this be the man she had left but half an hour since so full of vital strength and youth? His vest and shirt were torn to ribbons so that they did not cover the mauled and bruised flesh at all. Every exposed inch of his head and body had its wounds to show. He was drenched with blood. The sight of his face wrung her heart.
"What did he do to you?" she cried with a sob, slipping an arm round his waist to support him.
"I said I'd be the one to come," he told her as he leaned against the neck of his pony.
"Oh, why did you do it?" And swiftly on the heels of that cry came the thought of relief for him. "I'll get you water. I'll bathe your wounds."
"No. We've got to get out of here. Any time some of Pasquale's men may come. His camp is not far."
"But you can't go like that. You're hurt."
"That's all right. Nothing the matter with me. Can you get on alone?"
"Can you?" she asked in turn, after she had swung to the saddle.
He had to try it three times before he succeeded in getting into the seat. So weak was he that as the horse moved he had to cling with both hands to the pommel of the saddle to steady himself. Ruth rode close beside him, all solicitude and anxiety.
"You ought not to be riding. I know your wounds hurt you cruelly," she urged in a grave and troubled voice.