Vague sense of movement, of darkness, and of cold attended Carley's
consciousness for what seemed endless time.

A fall over rocks and a severe thrust from a sharp branch brought an
acute appreciation of her position, if not of her mental state. Night
had fallen. The stars were out. She had stumbled over a low ledge.
Evidently she had wandered around, dazedly and aimlessly, until brought
to her senses by pain. But for a gleam of campfires through the cedars
she would have been lost. It did not matter. She was lost, anyhow. What
was it that had happened?

Charley, the sheep herder! Then the thunderbolt of his words burst upon
her, and she collapsed to the cold stones. She lay quivering from head
to toe. She dug her fingers into the moss and lichen. "Oh, God, to
think--after all--it happened!" she moaned. There had been a rending
within her breast, as of physical violence, from which she now suffered
anguish. There were a thousand stinging nerves. There was a mortal
sickness of horror, of insupportable heartbreaking loss. She could not
endure it. She could not live under it.

She lay there until energy supplanted shock. Then she rose to rush into
the darkest shadows of the cedars, to grope here and there, hanging her
head, wringing her hands, beating her breast. "It can't be true," she
cried. "Not after my struggle--my victory--not now!" But there had been
no victory. And now it was too late. She was betrayed, ruined, lost.
That wonderful love had wrought transformation in her--and now havoc.
Once she fell against the branches of a thick cedar that upheld her. The
fragrance which had been sweet was now bitter. Life that had been bliss
was now hateful! She could not keep still for a single moment.