Gooding, with one bound, landed on David's bed, nearly
crushing the breath out of that feeble hero of the darkness.
Lights flashed quickly from tent to tent on the mesa, frightened voices
called for nurses, doors slammed, bells rang, and nurses and porters
rushed to the rescue.
"Who was it?" "Where was it?" "What is it?"
"Over here, I think," shouted a man. "Miss Tucker. I called to her
and she did not answer."
A low indistinct sound, half groan, half sobbing, came from the open
windows of the little tent. And as they drew near, their feet rattling
the dry sand, there came a warning call.
"A light, a light, a light," begged Miss Tucker. The nurses hesitated,
half frightened, and as they paused they heard a low drip, drip, inside
the tent, each drop emphasized by Miss Tucker's sobs.
The porter flashed a pocket-light, and they opened the door. Miss
Tucker lay in a huddled heap on her bed, her hands over her face, her
shoulders rising and falling. The nurses shook her sternly.
"What is the matter with you?" they demanded.
Finally, she was persuaded to lift her face and mumble an explanation.
"I was asleep, and I heard my name called, and I looked up. There was
a white shadow on the door.
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