Elmer Boatwrights chin sagged a little way. For a long moment he stood motionless, making no sound; then, without change of expression on his gray thin face, he moved with a slow gliding motion backward, backward, until his knees struck the bed; and stood, bent forward, his palsied hand tipping the candle so far that the hot tallow splashed in white drops on the matting.

Slowly the giant figure stirred, straightened up, came slowly into the room; closed the door, leaned back against it.

Then Boatwright spoke, slowly, huskily:

“It—it is you?”

“Yes.” It was plainly an effort for Doane to speak. “But—but I don't see how you could have got through.”

“Men do get through now and then.” Doane spoke with the quick irritability of the man whose powers of nervous resistance have been tried to the uttermost.

“You're wounded. You must be tired.” Boatwright was quite incoherent. “You'd better lie down. Here—take my bed! How did you ever find me? How did you get in in the first place?”

“I'll sit for a moment.” Duane lowered himself painfully to the bed. “Betty is here?”

“Betty? Oh, yes! We're all safe.”

“Where is she?”

“I—I don't know exactly.”

“You don't know!”

“Why, Madame Pourmont has been caring for her.”

“You mean that she is ill?”

“No. Oh, no! One moment. You've been hurt. I must tell the others. You must have attention at once. Mary Cassin is right here—and my wife.” The little man moved to the door. His color was returning now; he was talking rapidly, out of a confused mind. “You must have had a terrible time.”

“They left me for dead at the Hung Chan Gate. I crawled to the house of a convert.” Doane's great eyes, staring out of shadowy hollows, burned with tragic memories. Those eyes held Boatwright fascinated; he shivered slightly. “As soon as I felt able to travel I started toward T'ainan. Several of our native people came with me, walking at night, biding by day. On the way we learned that you had left. So I came here. I must see Betty.”

“But not like this,” the little man blurted out. Doane's eyes wandered down over his muddy tattered clothing.

“I'll call the others first,” said Boatwright He set down his candle on the wash-stand, just inside the door, and slipped out.

Doane sat erect, without moving. His eyes stared at the candle and at the grotesque wavering shadows of the wash-howl and pitcher on the wall. At each small night sound he started nervously—the scratching of a mouse, a voice in the compound, a distant sputter of shots.

Boatwright slipped back into the room.

“They're coming,” he said breathlessly. “In a minute. Mary sleeps in most of her clothes anyway, these days.”

“What is it about Betty?” Doane asked sharply.

“Oh—she's quite all right. We don't see much of her, not being in the same house. We're all pretty busy here, these days. It's an ugly time. I—I was just wondering. I don't know what we can dress you in. You could hardly wear my things. One of the Australians is nearly as big as you. Perhaps in the morning...”

His voice had risen a little, nearly to the querulous, as he hurriedly drew on his outer clothing. From the way his eyes wandered about the room it appeared that his thoughts had run far afield. And he was clumsy about the buttons. Even the intensely preoccupied Doane became aware of this, and for a moment studied him with a puzzled look.

The little man's tongue ran on. “Mary'll fix you up for now. Sleep'll be the best thing. In the morning you can use my shaving things. And I'll look up that Australian.... There they are!”

He hurried to the door. Dr. Cassin came in, greeted

Griggsby Doane with a warm hand-clasp, and at once examined his shoulder. Boatwright she sent over to the dispensary for bandages.

A moment later Mrs. Boatwright appeared, her strong person wrapped in a quilted robe.

“This is a great relief,” she said. “We had given you up.”

Duane's eyes fastened eagerly on this woman.

“Have you sent word to Betty?” he asked quickly.

Mrs. Boatwright looked at him for a moment, without replying, then moved deliberately to the window.

“Please don't move,” cautioned Dr. Cassin, who was working on his shoulder.

“Have you sent word?” Doane shot the question after Mrs. Boatwright.

There was no reply.

“What is it?” cried Doane then.

“If you please!” said Dr. Cassin.

“Something is wrong! What is it?”

Mrs. Boatwright was standing squarely before the window now, looking out into the dark courtyard.

“What is it? Tell me! Is she here?”

“Really, Mr Doane”—thus the physician—“I can not work if you move. Yes, she is here.”

“But why do you act in this strange way?”

Dr. Cassin compressed her lips. All her working adult life had been spent under the direction of this man. Never before had she seen him in the slightest degree beaten down. She had never even seen him tired. In her steady, objective mind he stood for unshakable, enduring strength. But now, twitching nervously under her firm hands, staring out of feverish eyes after the uncompromising woman by the window, his huge frame emaciated, spent with loss of blood, with suffering and utter physical and nervous exhaustion, he had reached, she knew', at last, the limits of his great strength. He had, perhaps, even passed those limits; for there was a morbid condition evident in him, he seemed not wholly sane, as if the trials he had passed through had been too great for his iron will, or as if there was something else, some consuming fire in him, burning secretly but strongly, out of control. All this she saw and felt. His temperature was not dangerously high, slightly more than two degrees above normal. His pulse was rapid, but no weaker than was to be expected. Worry might explain it; worry for them all, but particularly for Betty. Though she found this diagnosis not wholly satisfactory. Of course it might be, after all, nothing more than exhaustion. Sleep was the first thing. After that it would be a simpler matter to study his case.

Then, starling up suddenly, wrenching himself free from her skilful hands, Doane stood over her, staring past her at the woman by the window'.

“Will you please go to Betty,” he said, in a voice that trembled with feeling, “and tell her that I am here. Wake her. She must know at once. And try to prepare her mind—she mustn't see me first like this.”

There was a breathless pause. Then Mrs. Boatwright turned and moved deliberately toward the door. Then she paused.

“You'll see her?” cried the father. “At once?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Boatwright. “No. I am sorry. I would like to spare you pain at this time, Griggsby Doane. But I do not feel that I can see her. I'll tell you though, what I will do. I'll tell Monsieur Pourmont.” And she went out.

2

She was closing the door when it abruptly opened. Elmer Boatwright stood there, looking after his wife as she went along the dark hallway. He came in then.

“I brought the bandages,” he said.

“You must sit down again,” said the physician.

Doane, evidently bewildered, obeyed. And she began bandaging his shoulder.

He even sat quietly. He seemed to be making a determined effort to control his thoughts. When he finally spoke he seemed almost his old self.

“Elmer, something is wrong with Betty. Whatever it is, I have a right to know.”

Boatwright cleared his throat.

Dr. Cassin broke the silence that followed.

“Mr. Doane,” she said, “sit still here and try to listen to what I am going to tell you. We have been disturbed about Betty. I won't attempt to conceal that. This Mr. Brachey—”

“Brachey? Is he—”

“Please! You must keep quiet!”

“But what is it? Tell me—now!”

“I'm trying to. Mr. Brachey came to the compound the morning after you left—”

“But he gave me his word!”

“You really must let me tell this in my own way. He brought the news of your death. He had it from Pao's yamen. He demanded that we all leave T'ainan at once, with him. If he gave you his word, it is probable that he regarded your death as a release. Well....” For a moment she bent silently over her task of bandaging.

“Yes. Tell me?” Doane's voice was quieter still. More and more, to Boatwright, who stood by the wash-stand lingering a towel, he looked, felt, like the old Griggsby Doane... except his eyes; they were fixed intently on the matting; they were wide open, staring open.

“Well... Mrs. Boatwright felt that it was not yet the time to go. She distrusted this man. So we stayed a few days longer.”

“You are not telling me.”

“Yes. I am coming to it. Betty... Betty felt that she couldn't let him go alone.”

In a hushed, almost a reflective voice Doane asked: “So she came with him?”

Dr. Cassin bowed. Elmer Boatwright bowed. Doane glanced up briefly, and took them in; then his gaze centered again on the matting.

“And they are here now?”

“Betty is staying with Madame Pourmont. Mr. Brachey is living in a tent.”

“Where? What tent?”

Elmer Boatwright did not wait to hear this question answered, or the rush of other palliative phrases that were pressing nervously on the tip of Dr Cas-sin's not unsympathetic tongue. Never had he heard the quiet menace in Griggsby Doane's voice that was in it as he almost calmly uttered those three words, “Where? What tent?” He could nut himself think clearly; his mind was a blur of fears and nervous impulses. Doane wasn't normal; that was plain. Dr. Cassin's bare announcement was a blow so severe that even as he framed that tense question he was struggling to control the blind wild forces that were ravaging that giant frame of his. Once wholly out of control, he might do anything. He might kill Brachey. Yes, easily that! It was in his eyes.... And so, without a plan, all confused impulses, Elmer Boatwright slipped out, closing the door behind him. On the outer sill of the little building he paused, trying desperately to think; but, failing in this effort, harried through the night to Brachey's tent.

He was, of course, far from understanding himself. It was a moment in which no small dogmatic mind, once touched by the illogic of merely human sympathy, could hope to understand itself. Though he and Brachey were barely speaking, he had watched the man during the capture of the Chinese gun and ammunition. And since that incident he had observed that Brachey was steadily winning the respect of all in the compound. The confusing thought was that a sinner could do that. For he believed, with his wife, and Miss Hemphill, that Brachey and Betty had sinned. Dr. Cassin had been more guarded in her judgment but probably she believed it, too. Sin, of course, to what may without unpleasant connotation be termed the professionally religious mind, is a definite, really a technical fact. In the faith of the Boatwrights it could be atoned only by an inner conviction followed by the blessing of the Holy Spirit. No mere good conduct, no merely admirable human qualities, could save the sinner. And neither Betty nor Brachey had shown the slightest sign of the regenerative process. In Mrs. Boatwright's judgment, therefore, since she was a woman of utter humorless logic, of unconquerable faith in conscience, the two stood condemned. But her husband, in this time of tragic stress, was discovering certain merely human qualities that were bound to prove disconcerting to his professed philosophy. He wanted, now, to help Brachey; and yet, as he ran through courtyard after courtyard, he couldn't wholly subdue certain strong misgivings as to what his wife might think if she knew.

3

Before the tent he hesitated. The flap was tied; he shook it, with a trembling hand. He heard, then, the steady breathing of the man within. He tried knocking on the pole, through the canvas, but without effect on the sleeper. Then, with a curious sensation of guilt, he reached in and untied the flap, above, then below; and passed cautiously in. The night was warm. Brachey lay uncovered, dressed, as Boatwright saw when he struck a match to make certain of his man, in all but coat, collar and shoes.

Boatwright blew out the match. For another moment he stood wondering at himself; then laid a hand on the sleeper's shoulder. Brachey started up instantly; swung his feet to the floor; said in a surprisingly alert, cautious voice:

“What is it?”

“It's Elmer Boatwright.”

“Oh!” was Brachey's reply to this. He quietly lighted the candle that stood on a small table by the head of his cut. Then he added the single word, “Well?”

“I have come on a peculiar errand, Mr. Brachey...” Boatwright was fumbling for words.

“Yes?”

“There is little time for talk. A queer situation... let me say this—when you came to the mission and asked us to leave T'ainan with you it was under the supposition that Griggsby Doane was dead.”

“Yes.... You mean that now... that the news was inaccurate?”

Boatwright inclined his head.

“He is alive, then?”

Another bow.

“Where is he?”

“Well... it is... I must ask you to consider the situation calmly. It is difficult.”

Boatwright felt the man's eyes on him, coolly surveying him. It did seem a bit absurd to be cautioning this strange being to be calm. Had he ever been otherwise? Here he was, roused abruptly from slumber, listening, and looking, like a judge. He said now with quick understanding:

“He is here?”

Boatwright's head inclined.

“How did he ever get through?”

“We haven't heard the details yet. There's so much else.... I want to make it plain to you that he isn't altogether himself. He has evidently been through a terrible experience. He was wounded. He has some fever now, I believe.... Let me put it this way. He has just now learned that you are here—-that you—”

“That I brought his daughter here?” The remark was cool, clear, decisive.

“Well—yes. Now please understand me. He isn't himself. The news shocked him. I could see that. My suggestion is—well, that you move over to the residence for the rest of the night.”

“Why?”

“You see—Mr. Doane asked where you might be found, in what tent. He has had no time to reflect over the situation. His present mood is—well, as I said, not normal. I've thought that to-morrow—after he has slept—some—we can prevail on him to consider it calmly.”

“You mean that he may attack me?”

“Well—yes. It's quite possible. Monsieur Pour-mont would take you in now. I'm sure. In the morning you'll be back in your trenches. That will give us time to...”

His voice died out. His gaze anxiously followed Brachey's movements. The man had buttoned on his collar, and was knotting his tie before the little square mirror that hung on the rear tent-pole. Next he brushed his hair. Then he got into his coat. And then he discovered that he was in his stocking feet. That bit of absent-mindedness was the only sign he gave of excitement.

“If I might suggest that you hurry a little,” thus Boatwright... “it's possible that he's on his way here now.”

“Who?” asked Brachey coolly, raising his head. “Oh—you mean Doane.”

“Yes. I really think—”

Brachey waved him to be still. He moved to the tent opening, peered out into the night, then turned and looked straight at his caller, slightly pursing his lips.

“Where is Mr. Doane?” he asked.

“He was in my room. But you're not—you don't mean—”

“I'm going to see him, of course.”

“But that's impossible. He may kill you.”

“What has that to do with it?”

This blunt question proved difficult to meet. Boatwright found himself saying, rather weakly, “I'm sure everything can be explained later.”

“The time to explain is now.”

With this, and a slight added sound that might have been an indication of impatience, Brachey strode out.

4

For a moment Boatwright stood in the paralysis of fright; then, catching his breath, he ran out after this strangely resolute man; quickly caught up with him, but found himself ignored. He even talked—incoherently—as his short legs tried to keep pace with the swift long stride of the other. He didn't himself know what he was saying. Nor did he stop when Brachey's arm moved as if to brush him off; though he perhaps had been clinging to that arm.

Brachey stopped, looking about.

“This is the house, isn't it?” he remarked; then turned in toward the steps.

The door burst open then, and a huge shadowy figure plunged out. A woman's voice followed: “I must ask you to please come back, Mr. Doane. Really, if you—”

At the name—“Mr. Doane”—Brachey stopped short (one foot was already on the first of the three or four steps) and stiffened, his shoulders drawn back, his head high, Doane, too, stopped, peering down.

“Mr. Doane,” said the younger man, firmly but perhaps in a slightly louder tone than was necessary, “I am Jonathan Brachey.”

A hush fell on the group of them—Brachey waiting at the bottom step, Boatwright just behind him. Dr. Cassin barely visible in the shadows of the porch, silhouetted faintly against the light of a candle somewhere within, and Griggsby Doane staring down in astonishment at the man who stood looking straight up at him.

Brachey apparently was about to speak again. Perhaps he did begin. Boatwright found it impossible afterward to explain in precise detail just what took place. But the one clear fact was that Doane, with an exclamation that was not a word, seemed to leap down the steps, waving his stick about his head. There was the sound of a few heavy blows; and then Brachey lay huddled in a heap on the the walk, and Doane stood over him, breathing very hard..

Dr. Cassin hurried down the steps and knelt lie-side the silent figure there. To Elmer Boatwright she said, briskly: “My medicine case is in your room. Bring it at once, please? And bring water.”

Boatwright vaguely recalled, afterward, that he muttered, “I beg your pardon,” as he finished past Doane and ran up the steps. And he heard the sound of some, one running heavily toward them.

When he came out the scene was curiously changed.

Some of the natives were there, and one or two whites. An iron lantern with many perforations to let out the candle-light stood on the tiles. One of the Chinese held another. Dr. Cassin was seated on the ground examining a wound on Brachey's scalp; and the man himself was struggling back toward consciousness, moving his arms restlessly, and muttering.

But the voice that dominated the little group that stood awkwardly about was the voice of M. Pourmont.

Doane had sunk down on the steps, his head in his hands. And over him, somewhat out of breath, gesturing emphatically with raised forefinger, the engineer was speaking as follows:

“Monsieur Doane, it gives me ze great plaisir to know zat you do not die. To you here I offair ze vel-come viz all my 'eart. But zis I mus' say. It is here la guerre. It is I who am here ze commandair. An' I now' comman' you, Alonsieur Doane, zer mus' be here no more of ze mattair personel. We here fight togezzer, as one, not viz each ozzer. You have made ze attack on a gentleman zat mus' be spare' to us, a gentleman ver' strong, ver' brave, who fear nozzing at all. It is not pairmit' zat you make 'arm at Monsieur Brashayee. Zis man is one I need. It is on 'im zat I lean.”

Here Boatwright found himself breaking in, all eagerness, all nerves:

“If you had only known how it was! Mr. Brachey insisted on coming straight to you.”

“Monsieur Boatright, if you please! I mus' have here ze quiet! Monsieur Doane, you vill go at once to bed. It is so I order you. Go at once to bed!” Doane slowly lifted his head and looked at M. Pour-munt. “Very well,” he said quietly. “You are right, of course.” On these last few words his voice broke, but he at once recovered control of it. He rose, with an effort, moved a few slow steps, hesitated, then got painfully down on one knee beside the limp groaning figure on the walk. He looked directly at Dr. Cassin, as he said:

“Is he badly hurt?”

“I don't think so,” replied the physician simply, wholly herself. “The skull doesn't seem to be fractured. We may find some concussion, of course.” Doane's breath whistled convulsively inward. He knelt there, silent, watching the deft fingers work. Then he said—under his breath, but audibly enough: “What an awful thing to do! What a terrible thing to do!” And got up.

Boatwright hurried to help him.

“I'll go with you, Elmer,” said Doane.