The Frenchman’s respiration was scarcely appreciable, yet after a time he opened his eyes and looked up wearily.  At sight of the girl he smiled wanly, and tried to speak, but a fit of coughing flecked his lips with bloody foam, and again he closed his eyes.  Fainter and fainter came his breathing, until it was with difficulty that the girl detected any movement of his breast whatever.  She thought that he was dying, and she was afraid.  Wistfully she looked toward the mucker.  The man still lay with his head buried in his arm, but whether he were wrapped in thought, in slumber, or in death the girl could not tell.  At the final thought she went white with terror.

Slowly she approached the man, and leaning over placed her hand upon his shoulder.

“Mr. Byrne!” she whispered.

The mucker turned his face toward her.  It looked tired and haggard.

“Wot is it?” he asked, and his tone was softer than she had ever heard it.

“I think Mr. Theriere is dying,” she said, “and I—­I—­ Oh, I am so afraid.”

The man flushed to the roots of his hair.  All that he could think of were the ugly words he had spoken a short time before—­and now Theriere was dying!  Byrne would have laughed had anyone suggested that he entertained any other sentiment than hatred toward the second officer of the Halfmoon—­that is he would have twenty-four hours before; but now, quite unexpectedly, he realized that he didn’t want Theriere to die, and then it dawned upon him that a new sentiment had been born within him—­a sentiment to which he had been a stranger all his hard life—­friendship.

He felt friendship for Theriere!  It was unthinkable, and yet the mucker knew that it was so.  Painfully he crawled over to the Frenchman’s side.

“Theriere!” he whispered in the man’s ear.

The officer turned his head wearily.

“Do youse know me, old pal?” asked the mucker, and Barbara Harding knew from the man’s voice that there were tears in his eyes; but what she did not know was that they welled there in response to the words the mucker had just spoken—­the nearest approach to words of endearment that ever had passed his lips.

Theriere reached up and took Byrne’s hand.  It was evident that he too had noted the unusual quality of the mucker’s voice.

“Yes, old man,” he said very faintly, and then “water, please.”

Barbara Harding brought him a drink, holding his head against her knee while he drank.  The cool liquid seemed to give him new strength for presently he spoke, quite strongly.

“I’m going, Byrne,” he said; “but before I go I want to tell you that of all the brave men I ever have known I have learned within the past few days to believe that you are the bravest.  A week ago I thought you were a coward—­I ask your forgiveness.”

“Ferget it,” whispered Byrne, “fer a week ago I guess I was a coward.  Dere seems to be more’n one kind o’ nerve—­ I’m jest a-learnin’ of the right kind, I guess.”