"Famous! Now you can bathe my head all you please for it feels a little
queer."

"It's an awful wound," she said in tones of the deepest sympathy. "Oh, I'm so
sorry!"

"Pshaw! My head is too hard for that little scamp of a Weeks to break. His
turn'll come next."

She cut away the blood-clotted hair and bound up the rather severe scalp wound
with a tenderness and sympathy that expressed itself even in her touch. She
was too confused and excited to be conscious of herself, but she had received
some tremendously strong impressions. Chief among them was the truth that
nothing which had happened made any difference in him--that he was still the
same loyal friend, standing between her and the world she dreaded--yes,
between her and her own impulses toward self-sacrifice. Sweetest of all was
the assurance that he did this for his own sake as well as hers. These facts
seemed like a foothold in the mad torrent of feeling and shame which had been
sweeping her away. She could think of little more than that she was
safe--safe because he was brave and loyal--and yes, safe because he wanted her
and would not give her up. The heart of a woman must be callous indeed, and
her nature not only trivial but stony if she is not deeply touched under
circumstances like these.

In spite of his laughing contempt of danger, she trembled as she saw him ready
to go out again; she wished to accompany him on his round of observation, but
he scouted the idea, although it pleased him. Standing in the door, she
strained her eyes and listened breathlessly. He soon returned and said,
"They've all had enough. We won't be disturbed again."