For half an hour or so I sat there in the dark, the sense of that face pressing close on me. It was a damnable face--meanly handsome, basely proud. In my one glimpse of it I had seen that the man was suffering atrociously, but as we slid along through the night he made no sound. At length the motor stopped with a violent jerk that drew a single moan from him. I turned the light on him, but he lay perfectly still, lips and lids shut, making no sign; and I jumped out and ran round to the front to see what had happened. The motor had stopped for lack of gasolene and was stock still in the deep mud. Réchamp muttered something about a leak in his tank. As he bent over it, the lantern flame struck up into his face, which was set and businesslike. It struck me vaguely that he showed no particular surprise. “What’s to be done?” I asked. “I think I can tinker it up; but we’ve got to have more essence to go on with.” I stared at him in despair: it was a good hour’s walk back to the lines, and we weren’t so sure of getting any gasolene when we got there! But there was no help for it; and as Réchamp was dead lame, no alternative but for me to go. I opened the ambulance door, gave another look at the motionless man inside and took out a remedy which I handed over to Réchamp with a word of explanation. “You know how to give a hypo? Keep a close eye on him and pop this in if you see a change--not otherwise.” He nodded. “Do you suppose he’ll die?” he asked below his breath. “No, I don’t. If we get him to the hospital before morning I think he’ll pull through.” “Oh, all right.” He unhooked one of the motor lanterns and handed it over to me. “I’ll do my best,” he said as I turned away. Getting back to the lines through that pitch-black forest, and finding somebody to bring the gasolene back for me was about the weariest job I ever tackled. I couldn’t imagine why it wasn’t daylight when we finally got to the place where I had left the motor. It seemed to me as if I had been gone twelve hours when I finally caught sight of the grey bulk of the car through the thinning darkness. Réchamp came forward to meet us, and took hold of my arm as I was opening the door of the car. “The man’s dead,” he said. I had lifted up my pocket-lamp, and its light fell on Réchamp’s face, which was perfectly composed, and seemed less gaunt and drawn than at any time since we had started on our trip. “Dead? Why--how? What happened? Did you give him the hypodermic?” I stammered, taken aback. “No time to. He died in a minute.” “How do you know he did? Were you with him?”