He found her crouched in a tiny hollow close to a narrow footpath that
ran through the wood. She was on her knees, but she turned a deathly
face up to him as he reached her. She was sobbing like a child.
"They are great iron teeth," she gasped, "fastened in my hand. Can you
open them?"
"Don't move!" he ordered, as he dropped down beside her.
It was a poacher's trap, fortunately of a species with which he was
acquainted. Her hand was fairly gripped between the iron jaws. He
wondered with a set face if those cruel teeth had met in her delicate
flesh.
She screamed as he forced it open, and fell back shuddering,
half-fainting, while he lifted her torn hand and examined it in the
failing light.
It was bleeding freely, but not violently, and he saw with relief that
the larger veins had escaped. He wrapped his handkerchief round it, and
spoke:
"Come!" he said. "My house is close by. It had better be bathed at
once."
"Yes," she assented shakily.
"Don't cry!" he said, with blunt kindliness.
"I can't help it," whispered Cynthia.
He helped her to her feet, but she trembled so much that he put his arm
about her.
"It's only a stone's throw away," he said.
She went with him without question. She seemed dazed with pain.
Silently he led her down to his dark abode.
"I'm giving you a lot of trouble," she murmured, as they entered.
To which he made gruff reply:
"It's worse for you than for me!"
He put her into an easy chair, lighted a lamp, and departed for a basin
of water.
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