“No.” He pondered a moment. “I guess there's no risk.”
Then he led her up the street and through that end of camp out upon the rough, open slope. They began to climb. The stars were bright, but even so Joan stumbled often over the stones. She wondered how Jim could get along so well in the dark and she clung to his arm. They did not speak often, and then only in whispers. Jim halted occasionally to listen or to look up at the bold, black bluff for his bearings. Presently he led her among broken fragments of cliff, and half carried her over rougher ground, into a kind of shadowy pocket or niche.
“Here's where I slept,” he whispered.
He wrapped a blanket round her, and then they sat down against the rock, and she leaned upon his shoulder.
“I have your coat and the blanket, too,” she said. “Won't you be cold?”
He laughed. “Now don't talk any more. You're white and fagged-out. You need to rest—to sleep.”
“Sleep? How impossible!” she murmured.
“Why, your eyes are half shut now.... Anyway, I'll not talk to you. I want to think.”
“Jim!... kiss me—good night,” she whispered.
He bent over rather violently, she imagined. His head blotted out the light of the stars. He held her tightly for a moment. She felt him shake. Then he kissed her on the cheek and abruptly drew away. How strange he seemed!