She looked round her with a sense of helplessness.
She had never been placed in such a position before.

Not far from her was a mountain rill, and she ran to it with unsteady steps and soaked her handkerchief in it, and bathed the white, smooth forehead.
Even at that moment she noticed, half unconsciously, the clear-cut, patrician features, the delicate lines of the handsome face.
He had come to this mishap in his attempt to help her.

He was dying, perhaps, in her service.

A thrill ran through her, a thrill that moved her as by an uncontrollable impulse to bend still lower over him so that her lips almost touched his unconscious ones.

Their nearness, the intent gaze of her eyes, now dark as violets, seemed to make themselves felt by him, seemed by some mysterious power to call him back from the shadow-land of unconsciousness.