t let any
village doctor pull me about."

"They are sometimes very skilful," urged Roland, "and you do not know
that you must really die."

"I knew it as I was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment I knew
it, though I clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. Why! I
was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought
me back to life. I'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in
peace."

"I will promise not to leave you," replied Roland; "and if you must die,
it shall be in peace."

That he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him.
One of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in
unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly
when he saw him, telling Roland to let him do whatever he pleased so
long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of
the coming night. There was no hope, he said; and if he had not been
found by the peasants he would have been dead now. Roland must ask if
he was a good Catholic or a heretic. When the monk heard that he was a
heretic and needed none of the consolations of the Church, he bade him
farewell kindly, and went his way.

Roland Sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered
from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and
racked with agony. He wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain
was clear he had not much to say.

"Have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired Roland, in one
of these lucid intervals.

"I have no friends," he answered, "and no money. It makes death easier."

"There must be some one who would care to hear of you," said Roland.

"They'll see it in the papers," he replied. "No, I come from India, and
was going to England. I have no near relations, and there is no one to
care much. 'Poor Austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' That's
all. You've been kinder to me than anybody I know. There's about fifty
pounds in my pocket-book. Bury me decently and take the rest."

He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt
face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the
promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no
weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to
believe that this strong young man was dying.

"I lost my valise when I fell," he said, opening his eyes again and
speaking in a t