A terrible cry broke from the men, while McLean covered his face. Instantly Freckles was up, with the Angel in his arms, struggling on. The outer limbs were on them when they saw Freckles hurl the Angel, face down, in the muck, as far from him as he could send her. Springing after, in an attempt to cover her body with his own, he whirled to see if they were yet in danger, and with outstretched arms braced himself for the shock. The branches shut them from sight, and the awful crash rocked the earth. McLean and Duncan ran with axes and saws. The remainder of the gang followed, and they worked desperately. It seemed a long time before they caught a glimpse of the Angel's blue dress, but it renewed their vigor. Duncan fell on his knees beside her and tore the muck from underneath her with his hands. In a few seconds he dragged her out, choking and stunned, but surely not fatally hurt. Freckles lay a little farther under the tree, a big limb pinning him down. His eyes were wide open. He was perfectly conscious. Duncan began mining beneath him, but Freckles stopped him. “You can't be moving me,” he said. “You must cut off the limb and lift it. I know.” Two men ran for the big saw. A number of them laid hold of the limb and bore up. In a short time it was removed, and Freckles lay free. The men bent over to lift him, but he motioned them away. “Don't be touching me until I rest a bit,” he pleaded. Then he twisted his head until he saw the Angel, who was wiping muck from her eyes and face on the skirt of her dress. “Try to get up,” he begged. McLean laid hold of the Angel and helped her to her feet. “Do you think any bones are broken?” gasped Freckles. The Angel shook her head and wiped muck. “You see if you can find any, sir,” Freckles commanded. The Angel yielded herself to McLean's touch, and he assured Freckles that she was not seriously injured. Freckles settled back, a smile of ineffable tenderness on his face. “Thank the Lord!” he hoarsely whispered. The Angel leaned toward him. “Now, Freckles, you!” she cried. “It's your turn. Please get up!” A pitiful spasm swept Freckles' face. The sight of it washed every vestige of color from the Angel's. She took hold of his hands. “Freckles, get up!” It was half command, half entreaty. “Easy, Angel, easy! Let me rest a bit first!” implored Freckles. She knelt beside him. He reached his arm around her and drew her closely. He looked at McLean in an agony of entreaty that brought the Boss to his knees on the other side. “Oh, Freckles!” McLean cried. “Not that! Surely we can do something! We must! Let me see!” He tried to unfasten Freckles' neckband, but his fingers shook so clumsily that the Angel pushed them away and herself laid Freckles' chest bare. With one hasty glance she gathered the clothing together and slipped her arm under his head. Freckles lifted his eyes of agony to hers. “You see?” he said. The Angel nodded dumbly. Freckles turned to McLean.