"Send--for--Steele," I whispered.
Silently, swiftly, breathlessly they worked over me. I was exquisitely
sensitive to touch, to sound, but I could not see anything. By and by
all was quiet, and I slipped into a black void. Familiar heavy swift
footsteps, the thump of heels of a powerful and striding man, jarred
into the blackness that held me, seemed to split it to let me out; and I
opened my eyes in a sunlit room to see Sally's face all lined and
haggard, to see Miss Sampson fly to the door, and the stalwart Ranger
bow his lofty head to enter. However far life had ebbed from me, then it
came rushing back, keen-sighted, memorable, with agonizing pain in every
nerve. I saw him start, I heard him cry, but I could not speak. He bent
over me and I tried to smile. He stood silent, his hand on me, while
Diane Sampson told swiftly, brokenly, what had happened.
How she told it! I tried to whisper a protest. To any one on earth
except Steele I might have wished to appear a hero. Still, at that
moment I had more dread of him than any other feeling. She finished the
story with her head on his shoulder, with tears that certainly were in
part for me. Once in my life, then, I saw him stunned.
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