hat it is--and I'll----"

"The sooner you get that scalp fixed," interrupted the attendant, "the
sooner you'll find the girl."

The details of the next hour were blurred to him. He remembered the
arrival of the brisk young surgeon, remembered his irritated greeting
at sight of him--"Another drunken row, I suppose"--and the sharp fight
he put up against taking ether. He had but one thought in mind--he
must not lose consciousness, for he must get back to the girl. So he
fought until two strong men came in and sat one on his chest and one
on his knees. When he came out of this he was nicely tucked in bed.
They told him that probably he must stay there three or four
days--there was danger of the wound growing septic.

Wilson stared at the pretty nurse a moment and then asked, "I beg your
pardon--how long did you say?"

"Three days anyway, and possibly longer."

"Not over three hours longer," he replied.

She smiled, but shook her head and moved away.

It was broad daylight now. He felt of his head--it was done up in
turban-like bandages. He looked around for his clothes; they were put
away. The problem of getting out looked a difficult one. But he must.
He tried again to think back as to what had happened to him. Who had
placed him in the carriage and given orders to the driver? Had it
been done to get rid of him or out of kindness? Had it been done by
the priest or by Sorez? Above all, what in the meanwhile had become of
his comrade?

When the visiting surgeon came in, Wilson told him quite simply that
he must leave at once.

"Better stay, boy. A day here now may save you a month."

"A day here now might spoil my life."

"A day outside might cost it."

"I'm willing."

"Well, we can't hold you against your will. But think again; you've
received an ugly blow there and it has left you weak."

Wilson shook his head.

"I must get out of here at once, whatever the cost."

The surgeon indifferently signed the order for his release and moved
on. The nurse brought his clothes. His only outside garment was the
long, gold embroidered lounging robe he had thrown on while his own
clothes were drying. He stared at it helplessly. Then he put in on. It
did not matter--nothing mattered but getting back to her as soon as
possible.

A few minutes later the citizens of Boston turned to smile at the
sight of a young man with pale, drawn face hurrying through the
streets wearing a white linen turban and an oriental robe.