He half carried
Celie up the ridge after that. She could not hide from him that
her feet were dragging even at a walk. Exhaustion showed in her
face, and once when she tried to speak to him her voice broke in a
little gasping sob. On the far side of the ridge he took her in
his arms and carried her again.
"It can't be much farther," he encouraged her. "We've got to
overtake him pretty soon, dear. Mighty soon." Her hand pressed
gently against his cheek, and he swallowed a thickness that in
spite of his effort gathered in his throat. During that last half
hour a different look had come into her eyes. It was there now as
she lay limply with her head on his breast--a look of unutterable
tenderness, and of something else. It was that which brought the
thickness into his throat. It was not fear. It was the soft glow
of a great love--and of understanding. She knew that even he was
almost at the end of his fight. His endurance was giving out. One
of two things must happen very soon. She continued to stroke his
cheek gently until he placed her on her feet again, and then she
held one of his hands close to her breast as they looked behind
them, and listened.
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