She had recognized him with reeling senses and through darkening
eyes. She had seen him leap before her father to confront that
glittering-eyed Durade. She had neither fear for him nor pity for
the Spaniard.
Sensations of falling, of being carried, of the light and dust and
noise of the street, of men around her, of rooms and the murmur of
voices, of being worked over and spoken to by a kindly woman, of
swallowing what was put to her mouth, of answering questions, of
letting other clothes be put upon her; she was as if in a trance,
aware of all going on about her, but with consciousness riveted upon
one stunning fact--his presence. When she was left alone this state
gradually wore away, and there remained a throbbing, quivering
suspense of love. Her despair had ended. The spirit that had upheld
her through all the long, dark hours had reached its fulfilment.
She lay on a couch in a small room curtained off from another, the
latter large and light, and from which came a sound of low voices.
She heard the quick tread of men; a door opened.
"Lee, I congratulate you. A narrow escape!" exclaimed a deep voice,
with something sharp, authoritative in it.
"General Lodge, it was indeed a narrow shave for me," replied
another voice, low and husky.
Allie slowly sat up, with the dreamy waiting abstraction less
strong.
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