"Yes," replied Dorn.
"Rustle along, then.… An' you, Miss Lenore, don't you worry none about us."
Lenore nodded and, holding Dorn's arm closely, she walked as fast as she could down the lane.
"I—I kept your coat," she said, "though I never thought of it—till just now."
She was trembling all over, hot and cold by turns, afraid to look up at him, yet immensely proud of him, with a strange, sickening dread. He walked rather dejectedly now, or else bent somewhat from weakness. She stole a quick glance at his face. It was white as a sheet. Suddenly she felt something wet and warm trickle from his arm down into her hand. Blood! She shuddered, but did not lose her hold. After a faintish instant there came a change in her.
"Are you—hurt?" she asked.
"I guess—not. I don't know," he said.
"But the—the blood," she faltered.
He held up his hands. His knuckles were bloody and it was impossible to tell whether from injury to them or not. But his left forearm was badly cut.
"The gun cut me.… And he bit me, too," said Dorn. "I'm sorry you were there.… What a beastly spectacle for you!"