from its foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The
porter turned his lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald
was raising the lid very slowly to save the contents from being
scattered by the wind, the man turned his head to answer an
approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a little higher and
suddenly closed it with a bang.

"There's folks coming at last!" the porter exclaimed, turning around
excitedly. "They've been a time and no mistake. The village isn't
a quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?"

Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and
his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his
face and whistled softly.

"You're about done yourself, sir," he remarked. "Hold up."

He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in
Gerald's ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted
in his life, but the feeling was upon him now--a deadly sickness,
a swaying of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.

"If I'm not a born idiot!" he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the
pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. "There's whisky here.
I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then."

He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of
the liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were
coming nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.