Then she slipped into utter blackness.
When she recovered from her faint she became aware that she was
lying on a couch near the window in her sitting-room. Her brow
felt damp and cold and wet, some one was chafing her hands; she
recognized Judkins, and then saw that his lean, hard face wore
the hue and look of excessive agitation.
"Judkins!" Her voice broke weakly.
"Aw, Miss Withersteen, you're comin' round fine. Now jest lay
still a little. You're all right; everythin's all right."
"Where is--he?"
"Who?"
"Lassiter!"
"You needn't worry none about him."
"Where is he? Tell me--instantly."
"Wal, he's in the other room patchin' up a few triflin' bullet
holes."
"Ah!...Bishop' Dyer?"
"When I seen him last--a matter of half an hour ago, he was on
his knees. He was some busy, but he wasn't prayin'!"
"How strangely you talk! I'll sit up. I'm--well, strong again.
Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?"
"Wal, beggin' your pardon fer blunt talk, Miss Withersteen, Dyer
was on his knees an' not prayin'. You remember his big, broad
hands? You've seen 'em raised in blessin' over old gray men an'
little curly-headed children like--like Fay Larkin! Come to think
of thet, I disremember ever hearin' of his liftin' his big hands
in blessin' over a woman. Wal, when I seen him last--jest a
little while ago--he was on his knees, not prayin', as I
remarked--an' he was pressin' his big hands over some bigger
wounds.
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