of water so warm that the thermometer in its side
marked ninety-eight degrees of Fahrenheit, Fournier stirred the blood
flowing into it quickly with the bundle of wires, to collect the fibrine
and prevent the formation of clots; he then drew it into the syringe
through the strainer, and forced it through the perforated needle, which
he had previously thrust into a large vein in Shirley's arm, carefully
avoiding the introduction of the slightest bubble of air. Time after
time he filled his syringe and emptied it into the veins of the wounded
man, until at length he saw signs of reaction. The color came, the
breathing became more natural, the pulse became slower, fuller, regular.
By and by he moved, sighed, opened his eyes and spoke.

He asked a question: "What has happened?"

While he had been lying there much had happened. Life and death had
battled over him, and life had triumphed. When he recovered from the
effects of his fall and found himself bleeding, he tried to rise and
stanch the flow, but, already exhausted, he fell back almost fainting
from the effort. He called repeatedly for help, but his only reply was
the hideous face of his guard, silently leering at him for a moment,
then disappearing without a word, At last it occurred to him that he had
been left there to die, and he roused all his energies to his aid. How
we strive for our lives! But Shirley accomplished nothing, he could not
even raise his hand to the bleeding shoulder, with every effort the
blood flowed more copiously. His mind was rapidly becoming benumbed like
his body, which shivered as though it were mid winter. Darkness came
over his eyes, and as he listened to the din of the battle he fell into
a dreamy state that soon passed into seeming unconsciousness again.
Nevertheless, while the doctor came and went and did his work, and the
savage scowled at him, yet gave his life's blood to save him, though he
lay like a dead man and saw them not, nor heard them, nor even felt the
needle in his flesh, his mind was not idle. Strange doubts and fears,
wild longings and regrets, sweet thoughts of long-forgotten happiness,
and fair visions of the future, busied his brain. Memory unrolled her
scroll and breathed upon the letters of his story that lapse of time and
press of circumstance had made dim, till they grew clear, and with
himself he lived his life again, and nothing was lost out of it or
forgotten. There was his mother's face again, with the old, ol