And she
collapsed as if she had been shot. I caught her and laid her on the
grass. Sally, murmuring and crying, worked over her. I helped. But
Steele stood aloof, dark and silent, as if he hoped she would never
return to consciousness.
When she did come to, and began to cry, to moan, to talk frantically,
Steele staggered away, while Sally and I made futile efforts to calm
her. All we could do was to prevent her doing herself violence.
Presently, when her fury of emotion subsided, and she began to show a
hopeless stricken shame, I left Sally with her and went off a little way
myself. How long I remained absent I had no idea, but it was no
inconsiderable length of time. Upon my return, to my surprise and
relief, Miss Sampson had recovered her composure, or at least,
self-control. She stood leaning against the rock where Steele had been,
and at this moment, beyond any doubt, she was supremely more beautiful
than I had ever seen her. She was white, tragic, wonderful. "Where is
Mr. Steele?" she asked. Her tone and her look did not seem at all
suggestive of the mood I expected to find her in--one of beseeching
agony, of passionate appeal to Steele not to ruin her father.
"I'll find him," I replied turning away.
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