"Yes. What happened? Did I faint?"

"Drink this."

She held a cup to his mouth and he obediently strove to swallow the
contents. It was champagne. After the first spasm of terror, and when
the application of water to his face failed to restore consciousness,
Iris had knocked the head off the bottle of champagne.

He quickly revived. Nature had only given him a warning that he was
overdrawing his resources. He was deeply humiliated. He did not
conceive the truth, that only a strong man could do all that he had
done and live. For thirty-six hours he had not slept. During part of
the time he fought with wilder beasts than they knew at Ephesus. The
long exposure to the sun, the mental strain of his foreboding that the
charming girl whose life depended upon him might be exposed to even
worse dangers than any yet encountered, the physical labor he had
undergone, the irksome restraint he strove to place upon his conduct
and utterances--all these things culminated in utter relaxation when
the water touched his heated skin.

But he was really very much annoyed. A powerful man always is annoyed
when forced to yield. The revelation of a limit to human endurance
infuriates him. A woman invariably thinks that the man should be
scolded, by way of tonic.

"How _could_ you frighten me so?" demanded Iris, hysterically.
"You must have felt that you were working too hard. You made me rest.
Why didn't you rest yourself?"