unting to tenderness. While the Canadian kept
bathing the wound with water from his canteen, Pepe proceeded into the
woods in search of a peculiar plant noted for its healing properties.
This plant was the _oregano_. Presently he returned, bringing with him
several slices which he had cut from the succulent stem of the plant;
the pulp of these, mashed between two stones, was placed over the wound,
and then secured by Tiburcio's own scarf of China crape wound several
times around the arm; nothing more could be done than await the effect
of the application.

"Now," said the Canadian, "you will soon feel better. There is no
danger of inflammation--nothing beats the oregano for preventing that,
and you need not be afraid of fever. Meanwhile, if you feel inclined,
there's a bit of roast mutton and a glass of _eau de vie_ at your
service; after which you had best lie down by the fire and take some
sleep--for I can see that you're weary."

"In truth," replied Tiburcio, "I am fatigued. I thank you for your
offer, but I do not feel inclined either to eat or drink; I have more
need of sleep, and with your permission shall try and get some. One
request I would make of you: that you will not permit me to sleep too
long; there are reasons why I should soon be awake again."

"Very well," said Pepe; "we don't want your reasons. If you wish us to
watch the hacienda, I beg you will only say so, and you shall have two
pair of good eyes at your service; therefore make your mind easy, and
sleep without fear of any enemy coming upon you unawares."

Tiburcio stretched himself upon the grass, and overcome by fatigue and
the many violent emotions he had that day experienced, soon fell into a
lethargic slumber.

For some time Bois-Rose sat regarding the sleeper in silence, but with
an air of strange interest.

"What age do you think he is?" he at length inquired of his comrade.

"Twenty-four, I should fancy," replied the ex-coast-guard.

"Just what I was thinking," said the Canadian, speaking in a tone of
half soliloquy, while a melancholy expression appeared to tone down his
rude physiognomy. "Yes, just the age he ought to be if still alive."

"He! who are you talking of?" brusquely interrupted his companion, in
whose heart the words of the Canadian seemed to find an echo.

"No matter," said Bois-Rose, still speaking in a tone of melancholy;
"the past is past; and when it has not been as one would have wished it,
it is bette