holding her head and shoulders in the crook of his left arm, he wet
his right hand and bathed her face, crouching over her, half nude,
dripping with the sweat of his great labors, a tender, palpitating
figure of bronzed muscle and sinew, with all his fury and hate
replaced by apprehension and pity. The short moments that he worked
with her were ages to him, but she revived beneath his
ministrations, and her first frightened look of consciousness was
changed to a melting smile.

"W-what happened, Poleon?" she said. "I was afraid!"

He stood up to his full height, shaking, and weak as the water that
dripped from him, the very bones in him dissolved. For the first
time he uttered words.

"T'ank God, ba gosh!" and ran his hand up over his wet face.

"Where is he?" She started to her knees affrightedly; then, seeing
the twisted, sprawling figure beyond, began to shudder. "He--he's
dead?"

"I don' know," said Poleon, carelessly. "You feel it purty good now,
eh, w'at?"

"Yes--I--he struck me!" The remembrance of what had occurred surged
over her, and she buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Poleon! Poleon!
He was a dreadful man."

"He don' trouble you no more."