“Give yourself no uneasiness,” added Guillermo Gonzales—“your friend is only reaching the point where he can live.” “Hark!” said Julio Murillo. “Victory is close at hand. Memory will assert itself soon.” The prophecy of the Mexican was soon to be fulfilled. J. Ecarg drew himself up and said without the least hesitation: “I remember the circumstances perfectly. I kept a hostelry of some repute in this city then. That was in the fall of the year 1898. Being the largest city within only a short distance of the Rio Grande, the beautiful and progressive Mexican city had become known, and not without much regret from the law-abiding Mexicans, as a rendezvous for many Americans who were refugees from justice. As a rule I was not in favor of shielding my countrymen; but my heart went out to a young man who was in such distress, such great mental torture. He called upon me late the very night of his arrival in Chihuahua, and on bended knee begged me to shield him from the fury of the law. He had no remorse of conscience for the wrongs he had committed. His only fear was the juzado. He most likely would have committed the same offences upon Mexican soil the day of his arrival, if there had been the slightest opportunity, and if he had not felt sure that he would have to face the four bare walls of a prison for the remainder of his life. There was a man in the city—an American, of good birth and education, a prospector and railroad man—who was my friend in every sense of the word. He spoke the Mexican tongue without a flaw. I appealed to him to find a place of refuge on some _hacienda_, for our distressed countryman. My friend said: “‘Your will is mine. But tell me, John, what is the name of this refugee from justice?’ “‘He is known,’ I replied, ‘as “The Plunger from Kansas.”’” A cry rang out through the room, as if some animal of high mettle had been wounded. Every one jumped to his feet and the look of pain and surprise was quite visible on each face. From whence had the unearthly cry come? was the unspoken question on the white lips of all save Mr. Niksab. They soon understood. “He is my friend. John, do you not remember? It was I, Niksab, who took ‘The Plunger from Kansas’ in a coach, on a dark, rainy night, to a cabin in the mountains on the _hacienda_ of Don Alberto Ulloa. I supplied him with the necessities of life, and there he remained for many weeks in fear and trembling. You know me, now, John, don’t you?” John did not reply; he had lapsed into a cataleptic state, and his anxious listeners were doomed to wait for further evidence, which would help to conclude their test case. Mr. Niksab walked the floor and wrung his hands: “He is dead now, I am sure,” he cried; but the great author of “Memory Fluid” put his hand upon his shoulder in a brotherly fashion, and in a quiet, reassuring voice said: “Again you are mistaken. It is only a further death of the millions of microbes which breed disease in his body.”