rom the two men.

It was Henri Lerouge.

He was hatless and his clothes were in shreds and covered with the
grime of the street. His hair was matted with coagulated blood,--his
lips were swollen hideously. A police agent in about the same
condition held him by the throat.

When Henri Lerouge saw Jean Marot he seemed imbued with the strength
of a giant and the agility of a cat. He shook off the grip of the
agent as if it were that of a child and at a bound cleared the
struggling group that separated him from his former friend.

They grappled without a word and without a blow, and, linked in the
embrace of mortal hatred, rolled together in the dust.

The cruel human waves broke over them and rolled on and receded, and
went and came again, and eddied and seethed and roared above them.

These two rose no more.

CHAPTER XIII

When the police, supported by the Garde de Paris, had finally swept
the boulevard clear of the mob, they found among the human debris two
men locked in each other's grasp, insensible. The imprint on two
throats showed with what desperate ferocity they had clung to each
other. Indeed, their hands were scarcely yet relaxed from exhaustion.
Their faces were black and their tongues protruded.

In the nearest pharmacy, where ambulances were being awaited by a
dozen others, Jean Marot quickly revived under treatment. The case of
Henri Lerouge, however, was more serious. He had received a severe cut
in the head early in the row and the young surgeon in charge feared
internal injuries. Artificial means were required to induce
respiration. This was restored slowly and laboriously. At the first
sign of life he murmured,--

"Andree! Sister! Ah! my poor little sister!"

Jean roused himself. The sounds of voices and wheels came to him
indistinctly. Everything merged in these words,--

"Andree! Sister!"

Then again all was blank.

When he revived he was first of all conscious of a gentle feminine
touch,--that subtle something which cools the fevered veins and
softens the pangs of suffering, mind and body.

He felt it rather as if it were a dream, and kept his eyes closed for
fear the dream would vanish. The hand softly bathed his head, which
consciously lay in a woman's lap. He remembered but one hand--his
mother's--that had soothed him thus, and the sweet souvenir provoked a
deep sigh.

"Ah! mon Dieu!" murmured the voice of Mlle. Fouchette.

"L'hopital ou depot?" inquired the nearest a