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, old loving smile upon her lips and the tender mother-love in the depths of her beautiful blue eyes—­lips that had so oven kissed away his childish tears, and had taught him to say at evening, “Our Father” and “Now I lay me down to sleep,” eyes that had never looked upon him without something of the heavenly light of which they were now so full.  There before him, bright and clear as ever, were the scenes of his boyhood—­the school-forms defaced with many a rude cutting of names and dates, the master knitting his shaggy brows and tapping meaningly with his ruler upon the awful desk while some white