between the lips; then a little more, as Jim's eyes opened again;
and at last every drop in the glass trickled down the sinewy throat.

Presently as they watched him the doctor said: "It will not do. He must
have brandy. It has life--food--in it."

Jim understood the words. He knew that if he drank the brandy the chances
against his future were terrible. He had made his vow, and he must keep
it. Yet the thirst was on him; his enemy had him by the throat again, was
dragging him down. Though his body was so cold, his throat was on fire.
But in the extremity of his strength his mind fought on--fought on,
growing weaker every moment. He was having his last fight. They watched
him with an aching anxiety, and there was anger in the doctor's face. He
had no patience with these forces arrayed against him.

At last the doctor whispered to Sewell, "It's no use; he must have the
brandy, or he can't live an hour."

Sewell weakened; the tears fell down his rough, hard cheeks. "It'll ruin
him--it's ruin or death."

"Trust a little more in God and in the man's strength. Let us give him the
chance. Force it down his throat--he's not responsible," said the
physician, to whom saving life was more than all else.

Suddenly there appeared at the bedside Arrowhead, gaunt and weak, his face
swollen, the skin of it broken by the whips of storm.

"He is my brother," he said, and, stooping, laid both hands, which he had
held before the fire for a long time, on Jim's heart. "Take his feet, his
hands, his legs, and his head in your hands," he said to them all. "Life
is in us; we will give him life."

He knelt down and kept both hands on Jim's heart, while the others, even
the doctor, awed by his act, did as they were bidden. "Shut your eyes. Let
your life go into him. Think of him, and him alone. Now!" said Arrowhead,
in a strange voice.

He murmured, and continued murmuring, his body drawing closer and closer
to Jim's body, while in the deep silence, broken only by the chanting of
his low, monotonous voice, the others pressed Jim's hands and head and
feet and legs--six men under the command of a heathen murderer.

The minutes passed. The color came back to Jim's face, the skin of his
hands filled up, they ceased twitching, his pulse got stronger, his eyes
opened with a new light in them.

"I'm living, anyhow," he said, at last, with a faint smile. "I'm
hungry--broth, please."

The fight was won, and Arrowhead, the pagan murderer, dr