THE REDEMPTION OF ANTHONY
to the heap of clothes lying against the fence. It was Priscilla, and she lay white and still, like a broken flower.
"God!" said Drake, and touched her face weakly.
"Drake! Drake!" called The Parson from somewhere. He turned and beheld the reverend gentleman struggling from under the upturned car, his head appearing unexpectedly among the cushions.
"Drake, if you could get me out I'd be obliged."
Drake tried to drag himself to his feet.
"In a moment," he said. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't know—I think not. Where's Priscilla?"
"There!" Drake almost sobbed.
"Is she hurt?" demanded The Parson, renewing his struggle.
"I'm afraid so."
"We haven't killed her, Drake?"
"God forbid!"
He finally dragged himself to the side of
80
