The Girl called back to him softly:
"You are all right, _Sakewawin_?"
"Yes, it is so comfortable that I feel I may fall asleep," he replied.
Out in the starlight she would have seen his drooping head, and his
words would have had a different meaning for her. He was fighting with
himself desperately, and in his heart was a great fear. He must be badly
hurt, he thought. There came to him a distorted but vivid vision of an
Indian hurt in the head, whom he and Father Roland had tried to save.
Without a surgeon it had been impossible. The Indian had died, and he
had had those same spells of sickness, the sickness that was creeping
over him again in spite of his efforts to fight it off. He had no very
clear notion of the movement of Tara's body under him, but he knew that
he was holding on grimly, and that every little while the Girl called
back to him, and he replied. Then came the time when he failed to
answer, and for a space the rocking motion under him ceased and the
Girl's voice was very near to him. Afterward motion resumed. It seemed
to him that he was travelling a great distance. Altogether too far
without a halt for sleep, or at least a rest. He was conscious of a
desire to voice protest--and all the time his fingers were clasped in
Tara'a mane in a sort of death grip.
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