He tried to move, to spring
up, but only his mind appeared free. Then he thought he recognized
her voice calling in the distance. Soon, with alternations of hope
and fear, he heard her steps and voice draw nearer. She had evidently
found a way down the ledge, and was coming along its base toward
him--coming swiftly, almost recklessly.
She was at his side. Her low, terror-stricken cry chilled his heart.
Was he dead? and was it his soul only, lingering in the body, that was
cognizant of all this?
Her hand was on his pulse, then inside his vest against his heart.
"Oh," she moaned, "can he be dying or dead? I can't find his pulse,
nor does his heart seem to beat. He is so pale, so deathly pale, even
to his lips."
He knew that she was lifting him into a different and easier position,
and wondered at the muscular power she exerted, even under excitement.
"Why, why," she exclaimed in horror, "he is cold, strangely cold! His
hands and brow are almost like ice, and wet with the dew of death."
She was not aware of the fact that extreme coldness and a clammy
perspiration would be among the results of such a severe shock.
"Graydon," she gasped, "Graydon!" Then after a moment: "O God, if he
should never know!"
She chafed his hands and wrists, opened the lunch basket, and found
that the bottle containing water was not broken, for he felt drops
dashed on his face, and his lips moistened; but the same stony
paralysis enchained him.
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