mediately her brain cleared and there stood forth as in a white light
the one thought: _Mark King was about to die, and he must not die_! For
he was Mark King, valiant and full of vigour and vitality, a man strong
and hardy and lusty, a man who would not be beaten! He was the victor,
not the vanquished. And, further, she, Gloria King, Mark King's wife,
would not let him die! He was hers, her own; she would hold him back to
her. Had he not come to her when she needed him, and done his uttermost
for her? If now she was filled with life and the pulsating love of life,
it was his doing. And now it was her task--her glorious, God-given
privilege!--to do for him, to fight for him, ignoring the odds against
her, to save him. She sprang up filled with stubborn, confident
determination. He was hers and she would not let him die. She had
learned to fight; she had fought against Gratton, against Brodie; she
would fight as she had never done until now against death itself.

He was big and she little, yet she dragged his bed close to his side and
got her arms about him and lifted him enough to get him upon the
blankets. She ran to her fire and piled and piled wood on it until the
flames roared noisily and brightened everything about her. She ran back
to him and knelt again and slipped her hand inside his shirt, seeking
his heart. The deep chest was barely warmer than death; the heart
stirred only faintly. But it did beat. She sought the wound Brail's
bullet had made and found it in his side. There was blood on her hands
but she did not notice it now. She found where the bullet had entered
and where it had torn its way out through his flesh. She did not know if
any vital organ lay in that narrow span or if any major artery had been
severed or if the rifle-ball had merely glanced along the ribs and been
deflected by them; she only knew that he had lost much blood, that it
must have gushed freely while he strove with Swen Brodie, and that now
it must be stopped utterly. There seemed to be so little blood left in
the pale, battered body! She did see how in the intense cold it had
coagulated over the wounds, checking its own flow. But she did not mean
for him to lose another precious drop. And then it was that Gloria's
hands achieved the first really important work they had ever done in her
life. She tore bits away from her own under-garments and made soft pads
over each wound; with their butcher-knife she cut a long strip from a
blanket.