Her excessive anguish passed into insensibility. She ceased to
hear, to see, and even to feel the contact of the surface to which
she clung. Lingard's voice somewhere from the sky above her head was
directing her, distinct, very close, full of concern.
"You must stoop low. Lower yet."
The stagnant blood of her body began to pulsate languidly. She stooped
low--lower yet--so low that she had to sink on her knees, and then
became aware of a faint smell of wood smoke mingled with the confused
murmur of agitated voices. This came to her through an opening no higher
than her head in her kneeling posture, and no wider than the breadth of
two stakes. Lingard was saying in a tone of distress:
"I couldn't get any of them to unbar the gate."
She was unable to make a sound.--"Are you there?" Lingard asked,
anxiously, so close to her now that she seemed to feel the very breath
of his words on her face. It revived her completely; she understood what
she had to do. She put her head and shoulders through the opening, was
at once seized under the arms by an eager grip and felt herself pulled
through with an irresistible force and with such haste that her scarf
was dragged off her head, its fringes having caught in the rough timber.
The same eager grip lifted her up, stood her on her feet without her
having to make any exertion toward that end.
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