There, lying upon the ground beside
the horse, with its broken leg caught in a gopher's hole, was Louise.
Orlando's ruddy face turned white; something seemed to blind him for an
instant, and then he was on his knees beside her, lifting up her head,
feeling her heart. Presently the colour came back to his face with a
rush. Her heart was beating; her pulse trembled under his fingers; she
was only unconscious. But was there other injury? Was arm or leg broken?
He called to her. Then with an exclamation of self-reproach, he laid her
down again on the ground, ran to his broncho; caught the water-bottle
from the saddle, lifted her head, and poured some water between the white
lips.
Presently her eyes opened, and she stared confusedly at Orlando, unable
to realize what had happened. Then memory came back, and with it her very
life-blood seemed to flow like water through the opening gates of a
flume, with all the weight of the river behind. As her face flooded, she
shivered with emotion. She was resting against his knee; her head was
upon his arm; his face was very near; and there was that in his eyes
which told a story that any woman, loving, would be thrilled at seeing.
What restrained him from clasping her to his breast? What kept her arms
by her side?
The sun was gone, leaving only a glimmer behind; the swift twilight of
the prairie was drawing down. Warm currents of air were passing like
waves of a sea of breath over the wide plains; the stars were softly
stinging the sky, and a bright moon was asserting itself in the growing
dusk.
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