"You were four different women," I mused, "and now you are another,
quite another."
At this she frowned a bit, and rose. "You are not to talk," she said,
"nor to think that you are well; because you are not. I must go and see
the others."
I lay back against the wagon bed, wondering in which garb she had been
most beautiful--the filmy ball dress and the mocking mask, the gray gown
and veil of the day after, the thin drapery of her hasty flight in the
night, her half conventional costume of the day before--or this, the
garb of some primeval woman. I knew I could never forget her again. The
thought gave me pain, and perhaps this showed on my face, for my eyes
followed her so that presently she turned and came back to me.
"Does the wound hurt you?" she asked. "Are you in pain?"
"Yes, Ellen Meriwether," I said, "I am in pain. I am in very great
pain."
"Oh," she cried, "I am sorry! What can we do? What do you wish? But
perhaps it will not be so bad after a while--it will be over soon."
"No, Ellen Meriwether," I said, "it will not be over soon. It will not
go away at all."
CHAPTER XX
GORDON ORME, MAGICIAN
We lay in our hot camp on the sandy valley for some days, and buried two
more of our men who finally succumbed to their wounds.
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