She cried out as she did so, and then rising with some difficulty, immediately sat down again with her face awry.
"It's my knee," she said faintly.
Kinnaird scrambled toward her, but she waved him back.
"Go on with the packer," she said.
Kinnaird and Weston proceeded a little farther down the slope, which was practicable, though very steep; and when Ida called them back, Arabella smiled ruefully.
"It's horribly bruised, and I'm afraid I've twisted a ligament or something of that kind," she said.

"At least, I can't put any weight on it." There was an expressive silence for the next few moments, and Kinnaird gazed down into the valley with consternation in his eyes.

The sun had dipped behind the peaks by this time, and the great hollow was growing dim and hazy.

The river was blotted out, and even the climbing forest seemed indistinct.
"Could you get along on my arm ?" he asked.
"No," said Arabella sharply, "I don't think I could put my foot on the ground." Weston said nothing, though he realized that the situation was becoming serious.

They had had no more than one hasty meal since early morning, and they were worn out.