of Miss Sally as she appeared at their last
meeting. In another moment, in his already dazed condition, he might
have succumbed to some sensuous memory of her former fascinations, but
he threw it off savagely now, with a quick and bitter recalling of her
deceit and his own weakness. Turning his back upon the scene with a
half-superstitious tremor, he plunged once more into the trackless
covert. But he was conscious that his eyesight was gradually growing dim
and his strength falling. He was obliged from time to time to stop and
rally his sluggish senses, that seemed to grow heavier under some deadly
exhalation that flowed around him. He even seemed to hear familiar
voices,--but that must be delusion. At last he stumbled. Throwing out an
arm to protect himself, he came heavily down upon the ooze, striking
a dull, half-elastic root that seemed--it must have been another
delusion--to move beneath him, and even--so confused were his senses
now--to strike back angrily upon his prostrate arm. A sharp pain
ran from his elbow to shoulder and for a moment stung him to full
consciousness again. There were voices surely,--the voices of their
former pursuers! If they were seeking to revenge themselves upon him for
Cato's escape, he was ready for them. He cocked his revolver and stood
erect. A torch flashed through the wood. But even at that moment a film
came over his eyes; he staggered and fell.

An interval of helpless semi-consciousness ensued. He felt himself
lifted by strong arms and carried forward, his arm hanging uselessly at
his side. The dank odor of the wood was presently exchanged for the free
air of the open field; the flaming pine-knot torches were extinguished
in the bright moonlight. People pressed around him, but so indistinctly
he could not recognize them. All his consciousness seemed centred in
the burning, throbbing pain of his arm. He felt himself laid upon the
gravel; the sleeve cut from his shoulder, the cool sensation of the hot
and bursting skin bared to the night air, and then a soft, cool, and
indescribable pressure upon a wound he had not felt before. A voice
followed,--high, lazily petulant, and familiar to him, and yet one he
strove in vain to recall.

"De Lawdy-Gawd save us, Miss Sally! Wot yo' doin' dah? Chile! Chile! Yo'
'll kill yo'se'f, shuah!"

The pressure continued, strange and potent even through his pain, and
was then withdrawn. And a voice that thrilled him said:--

"It's the only thing