She drew the horse back deeper
among the trees and waited.
He came with a halting step, reeling now and again, a big man,
hatless, coatless, apparently at the last verge of exhaustion. Now his
foot apparently struck a small rock, and he pitched to his face. It
required a long struggle before he could regain his feet; and now he
continued his journey at the same gait, only more uncertainly than
ever, close and closer. There was something familiar now about the
fellow's size, and something in the turn of his head. Suddenly she
rode out, crying: "Wilbur!"
He swerved, saw the white horse, threw up his hands high above his
head, and went backward, reeling, with a hoarse scream which
Jacqueline would never forget. She galloped to him and swung to
the ground.
"It's me--Jack. D'you hear?"
He would not lower those arms, and his eyes stared wildly at her. On
his forehead the blood had caked over a cut; his shirt was torn to
rags, and the hair matted over his eyes. She caught his hands and
pulled them down.
"It's not McGurk! Don't you hear me? It's Jack!"
He reached out, like a blind man who has to see by the sense of touch,
and stroked her face.
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