"Elise," came the whisper, barely audible, as Carmody strove to lift his head, "she--promised"--but the head sank back on Blakely's knee. Stern was shouting at the stone gate--shouting and springing to his feet and swinging his old scouting hat and gazing wildly down the canon. "For God's sake hush, man!" cried the lieutenant. "I must hear Carmody." But Stern was past further shouting now. Sinking on his knees, he was sobbing aloud. Scrambling out into the daylight of the opening, but still shrinking within its shelter, the half-crazed, half-broken soldier stood stretching forth his arms and calling wild words down the echoing gorge, where sounds of shouting, lusty-lunged, and a ringing order or two, and then the clamor of carbine shots, told of the coming of rescue and new life and hope, and food and friends, and still Blakely knelt and circled that dying head with the one arm left him, and pleaded and besought--even commanded. But never again would word or order stir the soldier's willing pulse. The sergeant and his story had drifted together beyond the veil, and Blakely, slowly rising, found the lighted entrance swimming dizzily about him, first level and then up-ended; found himself sinking, whither he neither knew nor cared; found the canon filling with many voices, the sound of hurrying feet and then of many rushing waters, and then--how was it that all was dark without the cave, and lighted--lantern-lighted--here within? They had had no lantern, no candle. Here were both, and here was a familiar face--old Heartburn's--bending reassuringly over Wren, and someone was ----. Why, where was Carmody? Gone! And but a moment ago that dying head was there on his knee, and then it was daylight, too, and now--why, it must be after nightfall, else why these lanterns? And then old Heartburn came bending over him in turn, and then came a rejoiceful word: "Hello, Bugs! Well, it _is_ high time you woke up! Here, take a swig of this!" Blakely drank and sat up presently, dazed, and Heartburn went on with his cheery talk. "One of you men out there call Captain Stout. Tell him Mr. Blakely's up and asking for him," and, feeling presently a glow of warmth coursing in his veins, the Bugologist roused to a sitting posture and began to mumble questions. And then a burly shadow appeared at the entrance, black against the ruddy firelight in the canon without, where other forms began to appear. Down on his knee came Stout to clasp his one available hand and even clap him on the back and send unwelcome jar through his fevered, swollen arm. "Good boy, Bugs! You're coming round famously. We'll start you back to Sandy in the morning, you and Wren, for nursing, petting, and all that sort of thing. They are lashing the saplings now for your litters, and we've sent for Graham, too, and he'll meet you on the the way, while we shove on after Shield's people."