stood by so many dying men, had listened to so many
dying speeches, had seen death met in so many forms, and with
such strange variety of character, with indifference or
calmness, or resignation, with wild triumph, or wilder
remorse, that he looked back with a sort of wonder on his
present inexperience and perplexity. Not the less, however,
did he now sit framing a dozen speeches one after the other,
dreading the effect of saying too much, and fearing to say too
little, till, about an hour after Madelon had fallen asleep,
M. Linders at length stirred, opened his eyes, and tried to
move.

Graham was at his side instantly, and the sick man gazed up at
him in silence for a moment.

"What has happened?" he said at last in a feeble voice: "who
are you? where is Madelon?"

"Madelon is in the next room asleep," answered Graham; "you
met with an accident last night--I am an English doctor staying
in the hotel--the French one had to leave--do you remember?"

He paused between each sentence, and M. Linders' eyes, which
were fixed upon him as he spoke, gradually acquired an
expression of intelligence as memory returned to him. He
closed them again and turned away his head.

"Yes, I remember something about it," he said, "but--_que
diable_--I cannot move a limb; am I much hurt?"

"A good deal," said Graham, helping him to raise himself a
little. "You had better keep quiet, and take this," giving him
a cordial, as M. Linders sank back exhausted.

"That is better," he said, after a few minutes of struggling
breathing. "So I am a good deal hurt? Am I--am I going to die
by chance, M. le Docteur?"

He spoke in his old half-sarcastic, half-cynical way, but a
feeble, gasping voice, that made an effect of contrast, as of
the tragic face espied behind the grinning mask. Somehow it
touched Graham, burdened as he was with the consciousness of
the death-warrant he had to pronounce, and he paused before
answering. M. Linders noticed his hesitation.

"Bah!" he said, "speak, then; do you think I am afraid--a
coward that fears to know the worst? I shall not be the first
man that has died, nor, in all probability, the last. We ought
to be used to it by this time, _nous autres!_"

"Perhaps it is always best to be prepared for the worst," says
Graham, recovering himself at this address, and taking refuge
at last in a conventional little speech. "And though we must
always hope for the best, I do not think it right to conceal
from you,