t was impossible not to understand that the struggle,
which his delirium made real and present again, had stamped itself into
the texture of his spirit. "You shouldn't ask it, Loge," he said. The
crisis of the conflict which he was living over passed presently, and
he murmured, with contracted brows, and as if talking to himself: "Is
Loge a crook? A crook?"

But after a moment of this he returned again to a rapid repetition of
the phrase: "I'm a revolutionist, not a crook-not a crook--not a
crook--a revolutionist, not a crook, Loge, not a crook----" Once he
varied it, crying with a quick, hot scorn: "I'll cut their throats and
be damned to them, but don't ask me to steal." And then he was off
again to declaiming his poetry: "I spit, but, as I spit, I weep!"

But as Cleggett and the Doctor listened to him the youth's ravings
suddenly took a new form. He ceased to babble; terror expanded the
pupils of his eyes and he pointed at vacancy with a shaking finger.
"Stop it!" he cried in a croaking whisper. "Stop it! It's his
skull--it's Loge's skull come alive. Stop it, I say, it's come alive
and getting bigger." With a violent effort he raised himself before
the nurse could prevent him, shrinking back from the horrid
hallucination which pressed towards him, and then fell prone and
senseless on the bunk.

"God!--his wounds!" cried the Doctor, starting forward. As Farnsworth
had feared, they had broken open and were bleeding again. "It's a
ticklish thing," said Farnsworth, rumpling his hair. "If I give him
enough sedative to keep him quiet his heart may stop any time. If I
don't, he'll thrash himself to pieces in his delirium before the day's
over."

But Cleggett scarcely heeded the Doctor. The reference to "Loge's"
skull had flashed a sudden light into his mind. Whatever else "Loge"
was, Cleggett had little doubt that "Loge" was the tall man with the
stoop shoulders and the odd, skull-shaped scarfpin, for whom he had
conceived at first sight such a tingling hatred--the same fellow who
had so ruthlessly manhandled the flaxen-haired Heinrich on the roof of
the verandah the day before.

CHAPTER X

IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP

At seven o'clock that morning five big-bodied automobile trucks rolled
up in a thundering procession. As they hove in sight on the starboard
quarter and dropped anchor near the Jasper B., Cleggett recalled that
this was the day which Cap'n Abernethy had set for getting the sticks
and sail