is heart. Then her slim fingers ran over his forehead.

"A bad blow," she muttered, "but I do not think he is ill. There is no
fracture. When I nursed in the Alexander Hospital I learnt much about
head wounds. Do not give him cognac if you value his life."

Heritage was talking now and with strange tongues. Phrases like "lined
Digesters" and "free sulphurous acid" came from his lips. He implored
some one to tell him if "the first cook" was finished, and he upbraided
some one else for "cooling off" too fast.

The girl raised her head. "But I fear he has become mad," she said.

"Wheesht, Mem," said Dickson, who recognized the jargon. "He's a
papermaker."

Saskia sat down on the litter and lifted his head so that it rested on
her breast. Dougal at her bidding brought a certain case from her
baggage, and with swift, capable hands she made a bandage and rubbed
the wound with ointment before tying it up. Then her fingers seemed to
play about his temples and along his cheeks and neck. She was the
professional nurse now, absorbed, sexless. Heritage ceased to babble,
his eyes shut and he was asleep.

She remained where she was, so that the Poet, when a few minutes later
he woke, found himself lying with his head in her lap. She spoke first,
in an imperative tone: "You are well now. Your head does not ache. You
are strong again."

"No. Yes," he murmured. Then more clearly: "Where am I? Oh, I
remember, I caught a lick on the head. What's become of the brutes?"

Dickson, who had extracted food from the Mearns Street box and was
pressing it on the others, replied through a mouthful of Biscuit:
"We're in the old Tower. The three are lockit up in the House. Are you
feeling better, Mr. Heritage?"

The Poet suddenly realized Saskia's position and the blood came to his
pale face. He got to his feet with an effort and held out a hand to
the girl. "I'm all right now, I think. Only a little dicky on my
legs. A thousand thanks, Princess. I've given you a lot of trouble."

She smiled at him tenderly. "You say that when you have risked your
life for me."

"There's no time to waste," the relentless Dougal broke in. "Comin'
over here, I heard a shot. What was it?"

"It was me," said Dickson. "I was shootin' at the factor."

"Did ye hit him?"

"I think so, but I'm sorry to say not badly. When I last saw him he
was running too quick for a sore hurt man. When I fired I thought it
was the other man--the one th