She was frightened by their rash, plunging
progress, by his speech. She struggled. "Let me down. I won't be
carried like this against my will. Hugh, let me down!"
"All right!" He fairly flung her from him on a grassy spot. He was
about to leave her when a rushing rattle sounded above them. The
boulder he had twice used to turn his own weight upon was charging
down the hillside! Just in time he caught Sylvie, threw her to one
side and fell prone, helpless, in the path of the slide. He cried
out, flinging up his arm, and, as though his cry had been of magic,
the boulder faltered and stopped. A root half buried just above his
body had made a hollow and a ledge; it had rocked the rolling fragment
back up on its haunches, so to speak, and balanced it to a stop.
"Hugh! Hugh!" sobbed Sylvie. "What was it? Are you hurt?"
She crept up to him.
"No," Hugh told her, breathing heavily. "It was a rolling rock."
"How did you stop it? You must be hurt, crushed, bruised."
"My arm's wrenched--not badly." He had in fact wrenched it slightly.
"Your poor arm! You were so quick, so strong. You didn't think of
your own life. And I've been so cruel. Hugh, Hugh, kiss me."
Hugh took his reward, none the less sweet to his strange nature, in
that it was only potentially earned.
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