In his fall he had unconsciously clutched and torn down the
curtain, and like a shroud it lay over him. She was trying to raise
him, when the door opened and her mother appeared.
"What's the matter, Harriet?"
"He has fainted--I don't know, he may be dead. Look, mother!"
Mrs. Floyd raised Westerfelt's head and turned his face upward.
"No, he's still breathing." She opened his shirt hastily. "His wound
has not broken; we must get him to bed again. How did he happen to be
here?"
"He got up as soon as the Whitecaps came; I couldn't persuade him to go
back."
"We must carry him to the bed," said Mrs. Floyd. As they started to
raise him, Westerfelt opened his eyes, took a long breath, and sat up.
Without a word he rose to his feet, and between them was supported back
to his bed.
"His feet are like ice," said Mrs. Floyd, as she tucked the blankets
round him. "Why did you let him stand there?"
"It wasn't her fault, Mrs. Floyd," explained Westerfelt, with
chattering teeth. "I knew they meant trouble, and thought I ought to
be ready."
"You ought to have stayed in bed.
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