The girl’s heart seemed to stop beating as she looked at him—­at the white, colorless face, the closed eyes, the discoloration of blood staining the temple.  Yet he lived; his faint breath was plainly perceptible in the frosty air.

“O God!” she sobbed, “what can I do!”

It was an unrestrained cry of anguish, yet there was no hesitation in action.  She had forgotten everything except that helpless figure lying before her on the snow—­her own danger, the surrounding desolation, the dead forms accentuating that wilderness tragedy.  With bare hands she bathed his face in snow, rubbing the flesh until it flushed red, pressing her own warm body against his, her lips speaking his name again and again, almost hysterically, as though she hoped thus to call him back to consciousness.  Her exploring fingers told her that it was no serious wound which had creased the side of his head; if there was no other he would surely revive, and the discovery sent her blood throbbing through her veins.  She lifted his head to her lap, chafing his cold wrists frantically, her eyes staring again out across the barren snow fields, with fresh realization of their intense loneliness.  She choked back a sob of despair, and glanced down again into Hamlin’s face.  He did not stir but his eyes were open, regarding her in bewilderment.

“Molly,” he whispered, forgetting, “is this really you?  What has happened?”

The girl’s eyes filled instantly with tears, but she did not move, except that the clasp of her hands grew stronger.

“Yes, I am Molly; please do not move yet.  You have been hurt, but it is all right now.”

“Hurt!” he lifted his head slightly and stared about; then dropped it again with a sigh of content.  “Oh, yes, now I know.  Hughes shot me from behind.”  He struggled upright, in spite of her efforts at restraint, feeling beside him for the rifle.  “Dupont was there, behind that dead pony.  What became of Dupont?”

She dropped her face in her hands, her form trembling.

“He—­he got away.  He thought you were dead; to—­to make sure he came over and kicked you.  Then he took your rifle, and the only pony left, and rode off.”

“And left you?”

“Yes—­he—­he never thought of me; only—­only how he should escape with the money.  I never moved, never opened my eyes; perhaps he believed me dead also, and—­and I prayed he would.  I would rather have died than have him touch me again.  And—­and I thought you were dead too.  O God!  It was so horrible!”

The man’s voice was soft and low, thrilling with the love that refused control.

“I know, dear; I know it all, now,” he said tenderly, clasping her hands.  “But that is all over and gone.”  He put up one hand to his wound.  “Heavens, how my head aches!  But that pain won’t last long.  I am a bit groggy yet, but will be on my feet pretty soon.  You are a brave little girl.  Tell me how you got free?”