“Just in time,” he said to Philip as he came up.  Excitement had gone from his voice now.  It was cool and professional, and he spoke in a commanding way to his companion.  “You’re heavier than I, so take him by the shoulders and hold his head well up.  I don’t believe it’s the cold, for his body is warm and comfortable.  I feel something wet and thick on his shirt, and it may be blood.  So hold his head well up.”

Between them they carried him back to the cabin, and with the quick alertness of a man accustomed to every emergency of his profession the doctor stripped off his two coats while Philip looked at the face of the man whom they had placed in his bunk.  His own experience had acquainted him with violence and bloodshed, but in spite of that fact he shuddered slightly as he gazed on the unconscious form.

It was that of a young man of splendid physique, with a closely shaven face, short blond hair, and a magnificent pair of shoulders.

Beyond the fact that he knew the face wore no beard he could scarce have told if it were white or black.  From chin to hair it was covered with stiffened blood.

The doctor came to his side.

“Looks bad, doesn’t he?” he said cheerfully.  “Thought it wasn’t the cold.  Heart beating too fast, pulse too active.  Ah—­hot water if you please, Philip!”

He loosened the man’s coat and shirt, and a few moments later, when Philip brought a towel and a basin of water, he rose from his examination.

“Just in time—­as I said before,” he exclaimed with satisfaction.  “You’d never have heard another ‘Pierre Thoreau’ out of him, Philip,” he went on, speaking the young man’s name as it he had been accustomed to doing it for a long time.  “Wound on the head—­skull sound—­loss of blood from over-exertion.  We’ll have him drinking coffee within an hour if you’ll make some.”

The doctor rolled up his shirt sleeves and began to wash away the blood.

“A good-looking chap,” he said over his shoulder.  “Face clean cut, fine mouth, a frontal bone that must have brain behind it, square chin—­” He broke off to ask:  “What do you suppose happened to him?”

“Haven’t got the slightest idea,” said Philip, putting the coffee pot on the stove.  “A blow, isn’t it?”

Philip was turning up the wick of the lamp when a sudden startled cry came from the bedside.  Something in it, low and suppressed, made him turn so quickly that by a clumsy twist of his fingers the lamp was extinguished.  He lighted it again and faced the doctor.  McGill was upon his knees, terribly pale.

“Good Heaven!” he gasped.  “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing, Phil—­it was he!  He let it out of him so unexpectedly that it startled me.”

“I thought it was your voice,” said Philip.

“No, no, it was his.  See, he is returning to consciousness.”

The wounded man’s eyes opened slowly, and closed again.  He heaved a great sigh and stretched out his arms as if about to awaken from a deep slumber.  The doctor sprang to his feet.