"
CHAPTER XII
Vague sense of movement, of darkness, and of cold attended Carley's
consciousness for what seemed endless time.
A fall over rocks and a severe thrust from a sharp branch brought an acute
appreciation of her position, if not of her mental state. Night had fallen.
The stars were out. She had stumbled over a low ledge. Evidently she had
wandered around, dazedly and aimlessly, until brought to her senses by
pain. But for a gleam of campfires through the cedars she would have been
lost. It did not matter. She was lost, anyhow. What was it that had
happened?
Charley, the sheep herder! Then the thunderbolt of his words burst upon
her, and she collapsed to the cold stones. She lay quivering from head to
toe. She dug her fingers into the moss and lichen. "Oh, God, to think--
after all--it happened!" she moaned. There had been a rending within her
breast, as of physical violence, from which she now suffered anguish. There
were a thousand stinging nerves. There was a mortal sickness of horror, of
insupportable heartbreaking loss. She could not endure it. She could not
live under it.
She lay there until energy supplanted shock. Then she rose to rush into the
darkest shadows of the cedars, to grope here and there, hanging her head,
wringing her hands, beating her breast.
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