and seemed to be groping for hers. His breathing was terrible. There
was blood at the corners of his mouth, and more oozed forth when his
lips parted in an effort to speak.

With a courage that surprised even herself, the girl took his hand in
hers. It was wet and warm. She did not dare look at it.

"Merci, madame," struggled from the man's lips, and he smiled.

Barnes had heard of the French soldiers who, as they died, said "thank
you" to those who ministered to them, and smiled as they said it. He
had always marvelled at the fortitude that could put gratefulness
above physical suffering, and his blood never failed to respond to an
exquisite thrill of exaltation under such recitals. He at once deduced
that the injured man, while probably not a Frenchman, at least was
familiar with the language.

He was young, dark-haired and swarthy. His riding-clothes were well-
made and modish.

Barnes leaned over and spoke to him in French. The dark, pain-stricken
eyes closed, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head signified
that he did not understand. Evidently he had acquired only a few of
the simple French expressions. Barnes had a slight knowledge of
Spanish and Italian, and tried again with no better results. German
was his last resort, and he knew he would fail once more, for the man
obviously was not Teutonic.

The bloody lips parted, however, and the eyes opened with a piteous,
appealing expression in their depths. It was apparent that there was