touch of cold water was bringing him back his senses. Saskia with a
cry flew to him, and waved off Dickson who had fetched one of
the bottles of liqueur brandy. She slipped a hand inside his shirt
and felt the beating of his heart. Then her slim fingers ran
over his forehead.

"A bad blow," she muttered, "but I do not think he is ill.
There is no fracture. When I nursed in the Alexander Hospital
I learnt much about head wounds. Do not give him cognac if you
value his life."

Heritage was talking now and with strange tongues. Phrases like
"lined Digesters" and "free sulphurous acid" came from his lips.
He implored some one to tell him if "the first cook" was finished,
and he upbraided some one else for "cooling off" too fast.

The girl raised her head. "But I fear he has become mad," she said.

"Wheesht, Mem," said Dickson, who recognized the jargon.
"He's a papermaker."

Saskia sat down on the litter and lifted his head so that it rested
on her breast. Dougal at her bidding brought a certain case from
her baggage, and with swift, capable hands she made a bandage and
rubbed the wound with ointment before tying it up. Then her fingers
seemed to play about his temples and along his cheeks and neck.
She was the professional nurse now, absorbed, sexless. Heritage ceased
to babble, his eyes shut and he was asleep.

She remained where she was, so that the Poet, when a few minutes