The canal
went straight, a hundred yards through stubborn soil, and it was oozing
now with slimy waters.
He sat down weak, bewildered, and one thought was uppermost--Zora! And
with the thought came a low moan of pain. He wheeled and leapt toward
the dripping shelter in the tree. There she lay--wet, bedraggled,
motionless, gray-pallid beneath her dark-drawn skin, her burning eyes
searching restlessly for some lost thing, her lips a-moaning.
In dumb despair he dropped beside her and gathered her in his arms. The
earth staggered beneath him as he stumbled on; the mud splashed and
sunlight glistened; he saw long snakes slithering across his path and
fear-struck beasts fleeing before his coming. He paused for neither path
nor way but went straight for the school, running in mighty strides, yet
gently, listening to the moans that struck death upon his heart. Once he
fell headlong, but with a great wrench held her from harm, and minded
not the pain that shot through his ribs. The yellow sunshine beat
fiercely around and upon him, as he stumbled into the highway, lurched
across the mud-strewn road, and panted up the porch.
"Miss Smith--!" he gasped, and then--darkness.
The years of the days of her dying were ten. The boy that entered the
darkness and the shadow of death emerged a man, a silent man and grave,
working furiously and haunting, day and night, the little window above
the door.
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