So the hours passed.  For the most part King slept, lapsing into the deep stupor of a drugged man.  But at times he stirred restlessly; with slowly returning strength his wounds pained him; in his sleep he muttered; Gloria, watching him, winced as she saw his brow contract and saw how he tried to shift his body as though to pull away from something that hurt him.

* * * * *

King was awake.  Awakening, he tried to move.  His utter weakness, like a great weight bearing down upon him, held him powerless.  But his mind, slowly freeing itself from the shadows of sleep, was suddenly very clear.  He could turn his head a little.  It was late afternoon; outside the sun was still shining, for a patch of light lay at the side of the canvas flap.  At first he did not see Gloria; but his eyes quested until at last they found her.  She lay by the fire, her head upon her arm, sleeping.  The little huddled body looked weary beyond expression.

For a long time his haggard eyes remained with her.  She lay on the rocks, without a blanket.  His hand moved weakly; there were blankets under him, blankets covering him; his feet were wrapped in a blanket.  He remembered that a long, long time ago she had said to him:  “It was last night.”  All this long, long time he had had all the blankets....  He looked again at Gloria, at the fire; he saw wood piled near by.  For many minutes he puzzled the matter; in the end it was obvious, even to a man as sick as King, that she must have gone for wood.  Perhaps more than once.  He closed his eyes and lay very still.  He knew now that he had been desperately hurt; that, wounded, his fight with Brodie had brought him very near a weakness from blood loss that was pale twin to death.  And yet he was alive and warm; he had had broth and blankets and the fire had been kept blazing.  He managed to slip a hand inside his shirt; before his fingers found it he knew that the bandage was there.  Gloria had done all this ...  Gloria, whom he had struck ...

Ever since that blow, the one act of his life which he would have given so much to have undone, he had been ashamed.  He had rejoiced in his battle with the men who had threatened Gloria with worse than death, rejoiced that in some way he might make reparation.  But now, beginning to understand all that Gloria had done for him, how great were the sacrifices she had made for him, lying unconscious of all she did, it seemed to him that the thing that he had done was a very small thing set in the scales against her own acts.  He wanted to get up and go to her; to put his blankets about her; to play the man’s part and protect and shelter.  But he could not so much as raise his voice to call her to him....  Ever since that blow, upbraiding himself, he had said:  “She was only a little, terrified girl and you were a brute to her.”  And now he thought wonderingly:  “After that, she has worked for you, has nursed you, has saved the worthless life in you when she should have let you die.”  Again his eyes flew open; now they clung to her with a strange look in them, born of many emotions.