mself from his dreams. Once, when he thought he
was back in the thick of the battle, it seemed to him that he was
grasped firmly by the shoulder, whilst a rifleman of the enemy's
fired at him, striking him on the breast, where the bullet in an
incomprehensible manner went slowly boring its way into the flesh with
the most unspeakable torments till all sense of feeling sunk away into
a deep, deathlike sleep.

Out of this death sleep Edgar awoke suddenly into full and clear
consciousness, but in such strange surroundings that he could not form
an idea as to where he might be. The soft luxurious bed with its silken
curtains, was quite out of keeping with the small, low-roofed,
dungeon-like vault of undressed stones in which it stood. A dim lamp
shed a feeble light around--neither door nor window was discernible.
Edgar raised himself with difficulty, and saw that there was a
Franciscan friar sitting in a corner, seemingly asleep. "Where am I?"
Edgar cried, with all the energy which he could concentrate.

The monk started from his sleep, trimmed the lamp, took it up, looked
at Edgar's face by the light, felt his pulse, and murmured something
which Edgar could not understand. He was going to interrogate the monk
as to what had happened to him, when the wall opened noislessly, and a
man came in whom Edgar immediately recognized as the person who had
spoken to him on the Alameda. The monk called out to this person that
the crisis was over and all would now go well. "Praise be to God," said
the old gentleman, and approached nearer to Edgar's bed.

Edgar wished to speak, but the old gentleman prevented him, assuring
him that the slightest exertion would be dangerous to him still. It was
natural that he should be surprised at finding himself in such
surroundings, but a few words would be sufficient, not only to put him
at his ease, but to explain why it had been necessary to place him in
this dreary prison.

Edgar now learnt all. When he fell wounded in the breast the intrepid
"battle-brethren," in spite of the hotness of the fire, had taken him
up and transported him into the town. It happened that in the thick of
the confusion Don Rafaele Marchez (this was the old man's name) saw the
wounded Edgar, and instead of his being sent to the hospital he was
carried to Don Rafaele's own house at once, so that the friend of his
Baldassare might have every possible care. His wound was serious enough
in itself, but the peculiar danger