“Turk, if she dies, I swear to God I’ll kill myself this night!” cried he.

“You’re talkin’ crazy, sir.  She’s comin’ around all right, all right.  Hear that?  Her eyes’ll be busy in a minute, and she’ll be askin’ where she’s at.  Just keeled over, that’s all.  All women does that w’en they git’s as glad as she wuz.  They faint ’cause it’s easier’n it is to tell how much obliged they are.  I know ’em.  They pass up hard jobs like that ontil they gits time t’ look all pale an’ interestin’ an’ tuckered-out, an’ then they ain’t no use sayin’ much obliged, ‘cause th’ man won’t stand fer it a minute.”

Turk was kneeling opposite Quentin and was scratching match after match, holding them above the pale face until they burnt his finger tips.  When Dorothy at last opened her eyes she looked into the most terrifying face she had ever seen, and, as the lids closed again spasmodically, a moan came from her lips.  Turk’s bristled face was covered with blood that had dried hours ago, and he was a most uncanny object to look upon.  “Darn me, she’s askeert of my mug!  I’ll duck ontil you puts her nex’.”

“Look up Dorothy!  It is Phil!  Don’t be afraid, dearest; you are safe!” He knew that her eyes were open again, although it was too dark to see them.

“Is it you, Phil?” she whispered.

“Yes, yes!”

“Where is—­where is he?” in terror.

“He cannot harm you now.  He is gone.”

“But I saw his face just now.  Oh, you are not telling me the truth!”

“You saw Turk’s face, dearest.  What a time we had in finding you!  But you are safe now, thank God!”

She lay very still, striving to convince herself that she was awake and that she was really listening to Philip Quentin’s voice, hoarse and eager.  Her hand went to his face, impulsively searching for the features her eyes could not see.  Strong ringers seized it, and dry, burning lips kissed it again and again—­lips parched with fever.  The heart of the woman asserted itself at once, and concern succeeded perplexity.

“Oh, Phil, you are ill—­you should not be here!” she cried, in distress, and, before he could prevent she was on her feet, swaying dizzily.

“Then you are not hurt!” he cried.  “Thank God for that!” His arm was about her waist, and a wave of security and contentment rolled through her being.

“Take me back to the castle, Phil,” she said, simply.  “You will never know how unhappy I have been, how I have blamed myself for running away as I did.  But, oh, I thought he was a priest, and I wanted to prove that you could not keep me there.”

“You do not have to stay there, Dorothy,” he said, slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“I have been a fool, an ingrate, a brute, but I will atone if it is possible.  In your note you said you would forgive the others.  I don’t ask pardon for myself, but I implore you to shield them.  Perhaps it is too late; this detective has exposed us—­”