Schuyler was scrambling weakly to his feet. In dulled eyes there was a little gleam--the little gleam that Blake had tried so hard, so horribly, to bring. The slobbering lip had set a little and the loose, lax jaw.... There was there the shadow of the John Schuyler that was.... Blake stepped back, gladness in his heart. He had called him back so far. He would call him back the rest! [Illustration] CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. AGAIN THE BATTLE. Schuyler staggered, stumbled to his feet, thin hands clutching for support at chair arm. "You struck me!" he mumbled, savagely. "You struck me. You'll fight me-- fight me!" He lifted weakly, balancing himself upon unsteady, weakened legs. Blake, stepping back, found his hand against a glass of water. He seized it-- advanced a step--and cast the contents of the glass full into Schuyler's contorting face.... Schuyler slowly came to himself. The shock of the blows--of the words-- and finally of the water against his head, sent the blood to his brain-- banished the liquor, and the dementia, from it.... A weakened, miserable, pitiful imitation he was of the John Schuyler that had been. Yet it was John Schuyler that sat slumped into the chair, gazing up at the friend who had proven his friendship so often and so well. Schuyler sat for a moment, eyes blinking. At length his hand went forth, slowly. "Hello, Tom," he said. "I'm glad to see you." Puzzled eyes went about the room, eyes expanding, contracting, like those of a man who, having been long asleep, awakens to find himself in a place unfamiliar. Blake went to him, leaning over him. "You can understand me now?" he asked, tensely. Schuyler looked up. "Why, yes," he replied. "Of course, Tom. Of course I can understand you." Eyes again sought to solve the mystery of the room; for from the mind cleared had fled all memories of the mind uncleared. Blake cried: "You are coming away with us, Jack--away from this hell-snake of yours! You're coming today--now! Do you understand?" Schuyler nodded. "Yes," he said. "I understand." In his mind the real and the unreal were clarifying into an accurate whole. He nodded again. "There's still a chance for you, Jack." Blake continued, earnestly, all his force in his words. "There's still a chance for you. You're going to be strong, and become a man again! Tell me that you will!" "It's too late, Tom," he replied. There was in the words sadness, despair, hopelessness unutterable. "It's too late. Body, mind, soul are wasted, gone. There's no chance, Tom. It's too late!" "No!" cried Blake! "There is happiness for you--real happiness--the right happiness! Your wife--your child--" "Don't speak of them," Schuyler moaned. "Don't! ... Don't!"