broken. How can we tell?"

"I've no idea."

"Lift me up."

"But you might open your wound," protested Joan.

"Lift me up!" The force of the man spoke even in his low whisper.

"But why--why?" asked Joan.

"I want to see--if I can sit up. If I can't--give me my gun."

"I won't let you have it," replied Joan. Then she slipped her arms
under his and, carefully raising him to a sitting posture, released
her hold.

"I'm--a--rank coward--about pain," he gasped, with thick drops
standing out on his white face. "I can't--stand it."

But tortured or not, he sat up alone, and even had the will to bend
his back. Then with a groan he fainted and fell into Joan's arms.
She laid him down and worked over him for some time before she could
bring him to. Then he was wan, suffering, speechless. But she
believed he would live and told him so. He received that with a
strange smile. Later, when she came to him with broth, he drank it
gratefully.

"I'll beat this out," he said, weakly. "I'll recover. My back's not