The hunting-knife
glittered in the moonlight at a distance from his hand. He must have
fought on with his bare hands after his only weapon had been struck from
his grasp. His eyes were closed, and his face was like the face of the
dead.
Ruth, dropping to the earth beside him, had taken his head on her lap
before the priest could come up and dismount. She did not reply, nor
even hear his alarmed questioning.
"See if he is living, Father," she said. "Here, put your hand on his
heart--here--where my hand is. Make haste. Why are you so slow?" Then
flashing round on him in her impetuous way: "Why don't you say that you
feel his heart beat? Of course you do! Of course he is alive. How could
he be dead--in a moment--a flash--like this! He is so young. He has only
begun to live. And so strong and brave. Oh, so brave, Father! Dear
Father Orin--if you could have seen how fearlessly he stood, between
them and me--waiting for them to come! Only one, too, against so many.
But I wasn't afraid while I could see him. No, not for a moment, even
against them all.
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