were obvious. The right thigh was broken and badly bruised,
and he bled from a contusion upon the forehead. This wound upon his head
seemed also to have affected his brain; at any rate, he was unable to
speak coherently or to do more than mutter something about "shipwreck"
and "steamer Trondhjem," and to ask for water.

Thinking that at least it could do no harm, Morris gave him a cup of
soup, which had been hastily prepared. Just as the patient finished
drinking it, which he did eagerly, the doctor arrived, and after a swift
examination administered some anaesthetic, and got to work to set the
broken limb.

"It's a bad smash--very bad," he explained to Morris; "something must
have fallen on him, I think. If it had been an inch or two higher, he'd
have lost his leg, or his life, or both, as perhaps he will now. At the
best it means a couple of months or so on his back. No, I think the
cut on his head isn't serious, although it has knocked him silly for a
while."

At length the horrid work was done, and the doctor, who had to return
to a confinement case in the village, departed. Before he went he told
Morris that he hoped to be back by five o'clock. He promised also that
before his return he would call in at the Sailor's Home to see that the
crew were comfortable, and discover what he could of the details of the
catastrophe. Meanwhile for his part, Morris undertook to watch in the
sick-room.

For nearly three hours, while the drug retained his grip of him, the
patient remained comatose. All this while Morris sat at his bedside
wondering who he might be, and what curious circumstance could have
brought him into the company of these rough Northmen sailors. To his
profession he had a clue, although no sure one, for round his neck the
man wore a silver cross suspended by a chain. This suggested that he
might be a clergyman, and went far to confirm the broken talk of the
French-speaking sailor. Clearly, also, he was a person of some breeding
and position, the refinement of his face and the delicacy of his hands
showed as much. While Morris was watching and wondering, suddenly the
man awoke, and began to talk in a confused fashion.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"At Monksland," answered Morris.

"That's all right, that's where I should be, but the ship, the
ship"--then a pause and a cry: "Stella, Stella!"

Morris pricked his ears. "Where is Stella?" he asked.

"On the rocks. She struck, then darkness, all darkness. Ste