THE three remaining men turned to their work of clearing the road,
headed by Samson. He had not asked her any questions; he did not even
look again her way; but presently he brought her clothes, which he had
spread and dried in the sunshine, and told her that by the time she was
dressed the litter would be there. This she found to be so.
Coming down the road, on a powerful horse, she saw a bearded,
ruddy-faced, stocky, middle-aged man, whose business she easily guessed
from the country-doctor’s saddle-bags slung across his horse. The doctor
rode up and greeted,--
“Hello, Samson! Man hurt?”
“Don’t know,” answered the foreman.
Then, with a jerk of his thumb toward his guest, he added, “She can tell
you.”
The doctor had not seen her. He looked around, gazed at her a moment in
astonishment, and then, with a fine courtesy singularly different from
the hearty roughness with which he had greeted the man, he raised his
hat.
This diversion had kept the attention of the two from the quiet arrival
of the men with the litter. When the young woman saw it, she forgot the
presence of all save him lying so quiet where the men had placed him
on a bed made by Samson from coats. She ran and knelt beside him; she
kissed his cheeks; she chafed his hands; she begged him to speak, to
live for her sake.
The strong hand of the doctor lifted her from the unconscious man
and gently put her aside. A moment’s astonished gaze into the pallid,
upturned face brought this burst from the doctor,--
“Adrian Wilder--dying!” He turned anxiously upon the young woman, and
demanded, “Where did you find him? What is the matter here?”
“You mistake,” she firmly said. “He is Dr. Malbone.”
“Dr. Malbone!” he exclaimed. “Why, I am Dr. Malbone. This man is my
friend, Adrian Wilder!”
His look was half fierce and full of suspicion.
Too surprised to comprehend at once the full meaning of his declaration,
she stood staring at the physician in silence. That gentleman, turning
from her, dropped on his knees and made a hurried examination of the
unconscious man. “I don’t understand this,” he said to himself. He
quickly opened Wilder’s shirt. Upon seeing the emaciation there, and
exclaiming in amazement and horror, he turned again upon the young woman
as he knelt, and demanded,--
“Explain this to me. Be quick, for every moment is precious. I don’t
want to make a mistake, and I must know. He has pneumonia; but there is
something behind it. Where and when did you find him?”
In a few words she told the salient facts of the story as she believed
it,--the running away of the horses, the breaking of her leg, her
father’s departure to fetch relief, her care at the stone hut.
“When did this accident happen to you?” the doctor asked.
“Four months ago.”
“And you two have lived alone at his cabin?”
“Yes.”
He glanced her over, and looked more puzzled than ever.
“You are looking hearty,” he said; “how is it that my friend is in this
condition?”
“It must have been his care of me and his worry on my account.”
This appeared half to satisfy Dr. Mal-bone.
“Yes,” he said, “not being a doctor, and being extremely susceptible to
the pressure of his duty toward you, he may have worn himself out.”