The Black Death disappeared. And then I, too, was
falling, falling into infinite blackness and blankness, with one red
flash when I struck my head.
Half-conscious, half-hearing, altogether unseeing, I thought there
were two Voices near me. I couldn't understand what they said. One
of the Voices was gently and persistently applying cold and soothing
applications to my forehead. Another Voice chafed my hands. I
thought one said, "Achmet," and the other replied, "Sahib." I knew I
must be dreaming. But it was a pleasant dream enough.
Quite suddenly somebody said in good, anxious English:
"Thank God! you are better!"
I had opened my eyes. There was the whish-whish-whishing little
brook, the good brown pines, with their heavenly odor. And there was
the face of Nicholas Jelnik, bent over me. And beside him, gravely
concerned and troubled, Boris.
I looked from one to the other, both so clear-eyed, so kind, so
_safe_; and then I remembered.
"Sophy! Sophy!" He had his arms around me, in a close, protecting
clasp, while Boris pawed my skirts, and cried over me in loving,
honest dog fashion, and licked my wet cheek with his affectionate
tongue.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217