Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and looked in.  The girl was awake, with wide eyes and listening look, and she had a hand on Ring’s neck.

“Mocking-birds!” she said.

“Yes,” replied Venters, “and I believe they like our company.”

“Where are we?”

“Never mind now.  After a little I’ll tell you.”

“The birds woke me.  When I heard them—­and saw the shiny trees—­and the blue sky—­and then a blaze of gold dropping down—­I wondered—­”

She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined he understood her meaning.  She appeared to be wandering in mind.  Venters felt her face and hands and found them burning with fever.  He went for water, and was glad to find it almost as cold as if flowing from ice.  That water was the only medicine he had, and he put faith in it.  She did not want to drink, but he made her swallow, and then he bathed her face and head and cooled her wrists.

The day began with the heightening of the fever.  Venters spent the time reducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks and temples.  He kept close watch over her, and at the least indication of restlessness, that he knew led to tossing and rolling of the body, he held her tightly, so no violent move could reopen her wounds.  Hour after hour she babbled and laughed and cried and moaned in delirium; but whatever her secret was she did not reveal it.  Attended by something somber for Venters, the day passed.  At night in the cool winds the fever abated and she slept.

The second day was a repetition of the first.  On the third he seemed to see her wither and waste away before his eyes.  That day he scarcely went from her side for a moment, except to run for fresh, cool water; and he did not eat.  The fever broke on the fourth day and left her spent and shrunken, a slip of a girl with life only in her eyes.  They hung upon Venters with a mute observance, and he found hope in that.

To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourish the little life and vitality that remained in her, was Venters’s problem.  But he had little resource other than the meat of the rabbits and quail; and from these he made broths and soups as best he could, and fed her with a spoon.  It came to him that the human body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and capable of recovering from terrible shocks.  For almost immediately she showed faint signs of gathering strength.  There was one more waiting day, in which he doubted, and spent long hours by her side as she slept, and watched the gentle swell of her breast rise and fall in breathing, and the wind stir the tangled chestnut curls.  On the next day he knew that she would live.

Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought his accustomed seat against the trunk of a big spruce, where once more he let his glance stray along the sloping terraces.  She would live, and the somber gloom lifted out of the valley, and he felt relief that was pain.  Then he roused to the call of action, to the many things he needed to do in the way of making camp fixtures and utensils, to the necessity of hunting food, and the desire to explore the valley.