gathers his scattered faculties. He finds a handkerchief and ties up
his face. He muses.

"I am the sole survivor! I, Robert Chalmers, of New York City, am the
sole survivor, and nobody shall know even that. Corkey--let me
see--Corkey and a boy--they must be at the bottom of Georgian Bay!"

He muses again. His face hurts him once more. He sees a cabin at a
distance. He finds he has money in plenty. To heal his wounds will be
easy. He must be greatly changed if his feelings may be credited. Two
of his teeth are broken, and harass his curious tongue.

What plotter, cunning in exploits, could so well plan an honorable
discharge from the bitterness of life in Chicago?

"Sing on, you birds! Fly off to Cuba! I am as free!"

The man is startled by his own voice. It sounds as if some one else
were talking. Yet this surprise only increases his joy.

"Free! Free! Free!" The word has a complete charm. It is like the
shimmer of the waters. All this expanse of hammered silver is free!

"I am as free!" exclaims Robert Chalmers, of New York City.

And again starting at the sound of his own voice, he seeks the cabin of
a hospitable trapper, where his wounds healing without surgical
attention, may disguise him all the better.