Bill had not been lying long inert in the snow. Otherwise Virginia
would not have heard his heart thumping so steadily in his breast. In
fact, she was almost on the top of the ridge when he had given up. He
had just drifted off to sleep when she reached his side.
And now he thought he was in the midst of some wonderful, glorious
dream. Death was being merciful, after all: in the moment of its
descent it was giving him the image of his fondest dream. It seemed to
him that soft, warm arms were about him, that his head was pillowed
against a tenderness, a holiness passing understanding. He didn't want
the dream to end. It would in a moment, the darkness would drop over
him; but even for the breath that it endured it almost atoned for the
full travail of his life.
There were kisses, too. They came so softly, so warm, just as he had
dreamed. "Virginia," he whispered. "Is it you, Virginia--come to
me----?"
Then, so clearly that he could no longer retain the delusion of dream,
he heard his answer. "Yes--and I've come to save you."
It was true. Her arms were about him; he was nestled against her
breast. Yet the kisses must have been only a dream that was worth death
to gain. She was at work on him now. He felt her swift motions; now
she was putting a flask to his lips. A burning liquid poured into his
throat.
There ensued a moment of indescribable peace, and then the flask was put
to his lips again. The inner forces of his body, fighting still for his
life even after he had given up, seized quickly upon the warming liquor,
forced it into his blood, and drove away the frost that was beginning to
congeal his life fluids. Already he felt a new stir in his veins. He
struggled to speak.
"No yet," the girl whispered. "Don't make any effort yet."
She gave him more of the liquor. He felt strength returning to his
muscles. He tried to open his eyes. The sharp pain was a swift
reminder of his blindness. "I'm blind----" he told her.
"No matter, I'll save you." Even his blindness would not put a barrier
between them. One glance at the inflamed lids, however, told her that
in all probability it was just a temporary blindness from some great
irritation, soon to be dispelled. "Can you eat?" she asked.
The man nodded.
"It's better to, if you can. The whisky is only a stimulant, and it
won't keep you alive." She thrust a fragment of sweet chocolate into
his mouth, permitting it to melt. "You'd better get to your feet as
soon as you can--and try to get the flood flowing right again. We're
only a few miles from the cabin--if you'll just fight we can make it
in."
He shook his head. "I can't--I can't go any farther. I can't see the
way."
"But I'll lead you." By her intuition she guessed his despair; and she
comforted him, his head against her breast. "Don't you know I'll lead
you?" she cried, a world of pleading in her tone. "Oh, Bill--you
can't give up. You must try. If you die, I'll die too--here beside
you. Oh, Bill--don't you know I need you?"
The words stirred and wakened him more than all her first aid. She
needed him; she was pleading to him to get up and go on. Could he
refuse that appeal? Could any wish of hers, as long as he lived and was
able to strive for her, go ungranted? The blood mounted through his
veins, awakened. A mysterious strength flowed back into his thews.
There could be no further question of giving up. He struggled with
himself, and his voice was almost his own when he spoke. "Give me more
food--and more whisky," he commanded. "Take some yourself too--you'll
have to help me a lot going home. And give me your hands."
He struggled to his feet. He reeled, nearly fell; but her arms held him
up. She gave him more chocolate and a swallow of the burning liquid.
"It's a race against time," she told him. "If I can get you into the
cabin before the reaction comes, I can save you. Try with every muscle
you've got, Bill--for me!"
She need make no other appeal. She took his hand, and they started
mushing over the drifts.
* * * * *
The moose that stands at bay against the wolf pack, the ferocious little
ermine in the grasp of the climbing marten never made a harder, more
valiant fight than these two waged on the way to the cabin. There was
no mercy for them in the biting cold. Bill was frightfully worn and
spent from his experience of the day and the previous night, and
Virginia had lent her own young strength to him. Often he reeled and
faltered, and at such times her arm in his kept him up. The miles
seemed innumerable and long.
A might that has its seat higher and beyond the mere energy-giving
chemistry of their bodies came to their aid. Virginia had never dreamed
that she possessed such power of endurance and unfaltering muscles: a
spirit born of an unconquerable will rose within her and bore her on.
She was aware of no physical pain; the magnificent exertion of her
muscles was almost unconscious. Just as women fight for the lives of
their babes she fought for him, as if it were the deepest instinct of
her being. The thought of giving up was intolerable, and such spirit is
the soul of victory!
They won at last. Without the stimulant and the nutritious food defeat
would have been certain. But all these factors would have been
unavailing except for the fighting spirit that her appeal to him had
awakened and which she had found, full-grown, in her own soul.
They mused up to the cabin, and Harold stared at them like a lifeless
thing as Bill reeled through the doorway. Virginia led him to her own
cot, then drew the blankets over him. And she was not so exhausted but
that she could continue the fight for his recovery.
"Build up the fire, and do it quickly," she ordered Harold. Her tone
was terse, commanding, and curiously he leaped to obey her. She removed
Bill's snow-covered garments, and as Harold went out to procure more
fuel she put water on the stove to heat. Then, procuring snow, she
began to rub Bill's right hand, the hand that had been frozen in his
effort to grope for the trail. Quick and hard work was needed to save
it.
Harold came to her aid, but she put him to other work. She wanted to do
this task herself. Then she aroused the woodsman from his half-sleep to
give him coffee, cup after cup of it that used up the last of their
meager supply.
It is one of the peculiar faculties of the human body to recover quickly
from the effects of severe cold. Even coupled with exhaustion his
hardships had wrought no lasting organic injury, and the magnificent
recuperative powers of Bill's tough body came quickly to his aid. About
midnight he wakened from a long sleep, wholly clear-headed and free from
pain. Wet bandages were over his eyes.
He groped and in a moment found Virginia's hands. But an instant he
held them only; it was enough to know that she was near. He realized
that he was out of danger now: such tenderness as she had given him must
be forgotten. She was still sitting beside his bed, wrapped in a
blanket.
He started to get up so that she could have her own cot; but she wakened
at his motions. Gently she pushed him down.
"But I'm all right now," he told her. "I'm sleepy--and sore--but
I'm strong as ever. Let me go to my bed, and get some sleep."
"No. I'm not sleepy yet."
But the dull tones of her voice--even thought Bill could not see the
white fatigue in her face--belied her words. Bill laughed, the same
gay laugh that had cheered her so many times, and swung his feet to the
floor. "It's my turn to be nurse--now," he told her. "Get in quick."
"But I've had Harold bring some blankets here and spread them on the
floor," she objected. "I can go to sleep there, when--I'm--tired."
"And I can go to sleep there right now."
With his strong arms he half-lifted her and laid her in his warm place.
She yielded to his strength, sleepily and gratefully, and he drew the
blankets about her shoulders. The touch of his hand was in some way
wonderful,--so strong, so comforting. Then, reeling only a little, he
groped his way to the bed she had made upon the floor.
"Good night," he called, when he had pulled his blankets up. Guided by
a hope that flooded his heart with tremulous anticipations, he held out
his hand in the darkness toward her.
As if by a miracle, her own hand came stealing into his. No man could
tell by what unity of longing they had acted: but neither seemed
surprised to find the other's, waiting in the darkness. It was simply
the Mystery that all men see and no man understands.
He held the little hand in his for just a breath, as a man might hold a
holy thing that a prophet had blessed. Then he let it go.
"Good night, Bill," she told him sleepily.
In the hours of refreshing slumber that lasted full into the next
morning there was but one curious circumstance. In the full light of
morning it seemed to him that he heard the faint prick of a rifle, far
away. The truth was that for all his heavy sleep, some of his guardian
senses were awake to receive impressions, and the sound was a reality.
It was curiously woven into the fabric of his dreams.
There were four shots, one swiftly upon another. Four,--and the
figure four had a puzzling, yet sinister significance to his mind. He
didn't know what it was: he had a confused sense of some sort of an
inner warning, an impression of impending danger and treachery. Who was
it that had held up four fingers somewhere in his experience, and what
manner of signal had it been? But Bill didn't fully waken. His dreams
ran on, confused and troubled.