He
lifted her and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of wet, grey
clay.
He laid her down on the bank. She was quite unconscious and running with
water. He made the water come from her mouth, he worked to restore her.
He did not have to work very long before he could feel the breathing
begin again in her; she was breathing naturally. He worked a little
longer. He could feel her live beneath his hands; she was coming back. He
wiped her face, wrapped her in his overcoat, looked round into the dim,
dark-grey world, then lifted her and staggered down the bank and across
the fields.
It seemed an unthinkably long way, and his burden so heavy he felt he
would never get to the house. But at last he was in the stable-yard, and
then in the house-yard. He opened the door and went into the house. In
the kitchen he laid her down on the hearthrug, and called. The house was
empty. But the fire was burning in the grate.
Then again he kneeled to attend to her. She was breathing regularly, her
eyes were wide open and as if conscious, but there seemed something
missing in her look. She was conscious in herself, but unconscious of her
surroundings.
He ran upstairs, took blankets from a bed, and put them before the fire
to warm. Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbed
her dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets. Then he went
into the dining-room, to look for spirits.
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