Her knees were drawn
up, her hands clasped round her ankles. With the ragged detail of her
dress obscured, the line of her profile and throat sharp in clear
silhouette against the saffron glow, she was like a statue carved in
black marble. He could not see what her glance followed, only felt the
consolation of her presence, the one thing to which he could turn and
meet a human response.
He was feverish again, his thirst returned in an insatiable craving.
Moving restlessly he flung out a hand toward her and said querulously:
"How long will Low be gone?"
"Till the morning unless he finds water by the way."
Silence fell on him and her eyes strained through the darkness for the
last glimpse of the rider. He sighed deeply, the hot hand stirring
till it lay spread, with separated fingers on the hem of her dress. He
moved each finger, their brushing on the cloth the only sound.
"Are you in pain?" she asked and shrunk before the coldness of her
voice.
"No, but I am dying with thirst."
She made no answer, resting in her graven quietness. The night had
closed upon the rider's figure, but she watched where it had been.
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