She was at his side.  Her low, terror-stricken cry chilled his heart.  Was he dead? and was it his soul only, lingering in the body, that was cognizant of all this?

Her hand was on his pulse, then inside his vest against his heart.

“Oh,” she moaned, “can he be dying or dead?  I can’t find his pulse, nor does his heart seem to beat.  He is so pale, so deathly pale, even to his lips.”

He knew that she was lifting him into a different and easier position, and wondered at the muscular power she exerted, even under excitement.

“Why, why,” she exclaimed in horror, “he is cold, strangely cold!  His hands and brow are almost like ice, and wet with the dew of death.”

She was not aware of the fact that extreme coldness and a clammy perspiration would be among the results of such a severe shock.

“Graydon,” she gasped, “Graydon!” Then after a moment:  “O God, if he should never know!”

She chafed his hands and wrists, opened the lunch basket, and found that the bottle containing water was not broken, for he felt drops dashed on his face, and his lips moistened; but the same stony paralysis enchained him.  Then she sent out her voice for help, and there was agony, terror, and heart-break in her cry.

Realizing the futility of this on the lonely mountainside, she soon ceased, and again sought, with almost desperate energy, to restore him, crying and moaning meanwhile in a way that smote his heart.  At last she threw herself on his breast with the bitter cry: 

“Oh, Graydon, Graydon, are you dying?  Will you never know?  Oh, my heart’s true love, shall I never have a chance to tell you that it was you I loved—­you only!  It was for you I went away alone to die, I feared.  For you I struggled back to life, and toiled and prayed that I might be your fair ideal; and now you may never know.  Graydon, Graydon, I would give you the very blood out of my heart—­O God, I can’t restore him!” she moaned, in a choking voice, and then he knew from her dead weight upon his breast that she had fainted.

This mental anguish and the effort he put forth to respond to these words caused great beads of sweat to start out upon his face.  Suddenly, as if a giant hand was lifted, the effects of the shock resulting from his fall passed away.  He opened his eyes, and there was Madge, with her face buried upon his breast, in brief oblivion from fears that threatened to crush at once hope and life.

To his great joy he found that he could move.  Feebly, and with great difficulty, he lifted her head and tried to regain his feet.  He found this impossible, and soon realized that his leg was broken.  He now saw that he must act wisely and carefully, or their plight would be serious indeed; and yet his mind was in such a tumult of immeasurable joy at his discovery that he would not in the least regret the accident, if assured of her safety.

At last, in response to his efforts, she began to revive.  The sense of responsibility, the necessity for action on her part, had been so great immediately before she had fainted under the stress of one overwhelming fear, that her mind, even during unconsciousness, may have put forth effort to regain its hold upon sense.  She found herself leaning against a prostrate tree, and Graydon sitting near, speaking to her in soothing and encouraging tones.