fight. That was all right. But why he had fought or with whom, these were the mysteries. Oh! why did they not bring him some water? He was dying of thirst, and no one would come. He didn't remember going to bed. He never felt so sleepy in all his life before. It was a kind of deathly sleep, a sleep with no mercy in it, a sleep that promised no ease, no repose, no alleviation of the torturing uncertainties. Such a bed, too; it was as hard as iron. What did they mean by giving so sleepy a man such a bed? What nonsense it was for his mother to sing a lullaby. He was a grown man, and needed no such inducement to sleep. Oh, this terrible, tyrannical sleep that brought no ease, no repose. How strange that the cathedral organ should be booming away in the dark! If service was going on, why not have lights? Lights! Was it magic? No sooner did he think of them than the whole cathedral blazed out for one brief moment, and then fell back into darkness again. It was marvellous, incredible; and the cathedral seemed so vast, vaster than the reason could believe, although the eye had seen it. And, then, there was the music once again. Why did the organist play only when the lights were out? That was the swell organ. It was the loudest organ he had ever heard. What seemed most incredible of all was the organ was big enough to fill the church, and did fill it, until it made the windows, the pillars, ay, the very ground itself tremble. Ground! Ay, surely it was the ground. How extraordinary that he should be lying on the ground! What was this so delicious and cool? Cool and refreshing after that horrible dream of fighting with someone, and then waking on a road. And yet there was something in that dream, for this was a road. He sat up. It was very extraordinary. It was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened to him in his life. Was he alive, in the old familiar sense of that word? Of course he was, for this was a road, and he knew it was a road, and---- Lightning--thunder--rain. What was that he had seen beside him? The rain was refreshing. It was cooling his head, collecting his thoughts. What was that he had seen beside him? More lightning--thunder--rain. What was that beside him? Lavirotte--dead.

CHAPTER V.

Lavirotte dead! Absurd. Now he remembered how it had been. Lavirotte had sprung upon him out of the shadow of that rock, and seized him and sought to kill him, because Lavirotte was mad with jealousy, or with southern blood, or with something else or other, no matter what--mad anyway. And there was that burning sensation in his shoulder, and the fever in his blood, and that--ugh!--clammy feeling down his back, But Lavirotte dead? No; the very notion was preposterous. Now he remembered the struggle. Another flash. Another roar of thunder. Another deluge of rain. He looked wonderfully like death in that blue light. And yet in that struggle he (O'Donnell) did not remember having struck the other. It was a common tussle, an irregular wrestle, with the supreme interest of a knife added by Lavirotte. That was all. Yet he lay there motionless, and it must have been a considerable time since he fell. With great difficulty and a sense of oppression, O'Donnell rose partly, and crawled towards the prostrate man. "Dominique," he whispered, "Dominique, what is the matter? Rouse up." There was no response. The form of the Frenchman lay there motionless, inert, nerveless. O'Donnell raised an arm; it fell back again into the mud of the road, unsustained by any trace of vitality. "What can it be?" thought O'Donnell, straightening himself, as another flash of lightning revealed the pallid face of Lavirotte. He waited for the thunder to pass, and then, putting his hands around his mouth, shouted with all the strength that was left in him: "Help! Help! Help!" The storm had not been unnoticed in the village, and many were awake. James Crotty, boatman, had been roused by the first peal of thunder, had filled a pipe, undone the door of his cottage, and come out to see how the night went. His boat was moored in the cove, but as there was no wind his mind was easy about her. His wife and little ones were safe asleep in the cottage, and his mind was easy about them. At the best of times he was a light sleeper and a great smoker, and took a boatman's interest in the weather, fair or foul, but had a particular interest in the great conflicts of nature. While he was standing in the doorway he was within a few hundred yards of the two men below near the cove. His cottage was about half-way down the road, and it was quite possible to hear an ordinary speaking voice from where the men now were. When O'Donnell's loud cry for help rang out in the stillness, Crotty started, and then listened intently. No other sound followed. There was no mistaking the nature of that cry. He had heard the word as distinctly as though it were spoken in the dark room behind him. "It can't be any of the men," he said, meaning the fishermen of the place. "It is too early for any of the boats to be back, and too late for them to be going out. What can have brought anyone down there at this hour? I'd better go and see, anyway." He went down the little garden in front of his cottage, and gained the road. He turned to the left. Then he went on slowly, cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road. "Who's there?" he called out. "What's the matter?" "Here," cried O'Donnell faintly, "This way. Help." The rain had now ceased, and the silence was intense. Far out there in the darkness was the soft washing of the wavelets on the shore. No other sound burdened the night. Guided by O'Donnell's voice, Crotty now walked on with decision. "What's the matter?" he called out again. "Who is it?" O'Donnell's voice answered from the darkness. "It is I, O'Donnell." "Oh, Mr. O'Donnell, is it you? What's the matter?" "I'm hurt, badly I think, and here is Mr. Lavirotte insensible. I know how I got my hurt." Crotty was now close to the speaker. "That makes no difference; but I don't know how Mr. Lavirotte was hurt." "Maybe 'twas a fight," said Crotty, in a tone of interest. A fight is always an interesting thing, but a fight here and on such a night as this was something which Crotty did not feel himself justified in treating with anything but the greatest respect. "Never mind what has been," said O'Donnell feebly. "The thing is to get him to the village and call a doctor. I can't be of much help. I am quite weak. Come now, Crotty, look sharp. Knock them up at Maher's, tell them to put a horse in, and be back here in no time, and let there be a doctor at hand by the time we get back. Run now. Don't lose a minute." "And leave you here by yourself, hurt? Aren't you strong enough to walk as far as Maher's, or my place even?" "No. Be off. Every second you wait is killing us." Crotty started at the top of his speed, and in less than half-an-hour returned with a car from Maher's hotel. He had brought a lantern, and he and the driver carried Lavirotte to the car, and sat him up on it. Then Crotty got up and held the insensible man. O'Donnell got up on the other side, and thus they drove to the hotel. Here the doctor was awaiting them. "What's this, O'Donnell?" he said. He knew the two men thoroughly. "You two have been quarrelling. What is the meaning of this? Blood on both! Nasty scalp wound. Don't think the bone is broken. Clear case of concussion. What did you hit him with?" "Nothing," said O'Donnell. "Is it dangerous?" "Dangerous! I should think it is dangerous. Dangerous enough to mean manslaughter, it may be." "Good heavens!" cried O'Donnell, faintly. "I assure you I never struck him." "All right. Stick to that. It never does to make admissions. What's the matter with you? Blood and mud all over. Cut off his coat. Here, give me the scissors. No bleeding except here. Ugly cut." "Is it much?" said O'Donnell, very weak now. "Yes, it's a good hit." "Will it do