"When I let go of you," he said, very stern, "if you try to run for it I'll catch you and drag you back. And I'm in no mood for gentleness!" At that he let her go. He put his right hand to his shirt collar and began unbuttoning it. "My wound has broken open," he said, with a grunt of disgust. "That Baby Devil of yours didn't care where he hit a man!... Here; there's a bandage that has slipped. And I'm losing blood again. See what you can do." "Why should I?" she demanded coolly. "What is it to me whether or not you bleed to death?" Fury filled his eyes and he shouted at her: "You, by God, drilled the cowardly hole; and you doctor it!" "And if I won't?" "Then, as I live, I'll make you! One way or another, girl, I'll make you. That's Bruce Standing's word for you. Now hurry!" She cast a quick glance over her shoulder; she was on the verge of breaking into wild, headlong flight.... But certain knowledge restrained her; she knew that he would overtake her, that he would drag her back and ... that he was in no mood for gentleness. Therefore, while her whole soul rebelled, she came closer, as he commanded. ... She had never dreamed that any man born could have a chest like that; nor such shoulders, massive and yet beautiful as the pure-lined expression of power; nor such skin, soft and smooth and white as a girl's, the outward sign of another beauty, that of clean health. Clean, hard, triumphant physical manhood.... It struck her at the time, so that she marvelled at herself and wondered dully if she were taking leave of her sober senses, that there was truer, finer beauty in the body of such a man than in any girl's; that here was a true artist's true triumph.... Physically he was splendid, superb.... In his own image did God make man.... With his right hand he was working with the bandage where it was taped about the bulge of his left breast; on the white cloth were fresh gouts of blood. Impatiently he tore at his shirt collar; on the bandage, where it passed about his left shoulder-blade, were red stains. "Wait a minute," he commanded. "In my pocket I've got some sort of salve; some idiotic mess that Billy Winch cooked up; the Lord knows what it is or what he made it of; iodine and soap and flaxseed and cobwebs, most likely! But it will chink up the leak ... and it feels good and hasn't poisoned me so far! Here, smear it on."