He had not seen her face. Beyond her he had caught a half
formed vision of many people and the glistening edge of the sea, and as
he lay with closed eyes the murmur of voices came to him. The support at
his back was taken away, slowly, as if the person who held him feared
that he would fall. Nathaniel stiffened himself to show his returning
strength and opened his eyes again. This time the pain was not so great.
A few yards away he saw a group of people and among them were women;
still farther away, so far that his brain grew dizzy as he looked, there
was a black moving crowd. He was among the wounded. The Mormon women
were here. Down there along the shore--among the dead--had assembled the
population of St. James.
A strange sickness overpowered him and he sank back against his
supporter. A cool hand passed over his face. It was a soothing, gentle
touch--the hand of the woman. He felt the sweep of soft hair against his
cheek--a breath whispering in his ear.
"You will be better soon."
His heart stood still.
"You will be better--"
Against his rough cheek there fell the soft pressure of a woman's lips.
Nathaniel pulled himself erect, every drop of blood in him striving for
the mastery of his body, his vision, his strength. He tried to turn, but
strong arms seized him from behind. A man's voice spoke to him, a man's
strength held him. In an agony of appeal Marion's name burst from his
lips.
"Sh-h-!" warned the voice behind him. "Are you crazy?"
The arms relaxed their hold and Nathaniel dragged himself to his knees.
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