The enemy, sprawled among the rocks, groaned and cursed, as though shock had until that moment held him unable to make a sound. This was something familiar to Verrill, for in his way, he was now a doctor in fact--a man was a man, whether friend or enemy. And this one, being a man he had wounded, evoked his response more readily than had Kwangtan. Verrill dismounted. The man in the shadows mumbled and choked; the man's horse lay dead; and approaching his own handiwork shook Verrill's composure. Worse yet, he should not dally. No telling who might have heard the shots, who might be hurrying to the scene. But he could not abandon a patient, though this might become a dangerous business, with the Fire of Skanderbek taken from the shrine-- Three sounds blended. Verrill understood each, but too late. "Now see if you'll get the ruby!" the patient challenged, triumphantly, and fired. Venusian accent and intonation; pistol blast; and then, as Dawson, unwounded, bound up to take Verrill's horse, came the third sound: Falana's cry. Her approach, afoot, had tricked Dawson. She was on him from the rear before he sensed his danger. He swayed, he choked, and he would have flung her aside, but for the knife with which she finished him. Stab and slash; and he was dead before she could crawl free of him to go to Verrill. Dawson, living with the enemy tribe, had learned raiding tricks, and had known how to tempt an enemy by offering hope of plunder. By feigning a mortal wound, he had played the game as his brothers in raiding would have played it: and at the most he could not have hoped for more than a horse, and the weapons of the supposedly greedy and reckless one whose loot hunger had driven out ordinary caution. Moonlight on Verrill's face had given Dawson his moment of triumphant recognition--and then, sudden death which he might otherwise have avoided. The irony of all this passed through Verrill's mind during the moments which elapsed before he could recover sufficiently from shock to speak. Teeth chattering from the deadly chill which took hold of him, he said, "Physician, heal thyself." He knew he was beyond mending. He knew also that he had long drawn-out hours of agony ahead of him. Falana knew, without being told, that she would soon be alone; that she would never board the long gleaming shell on the take-off ramp of the trading-post to go with him to the home of the gods. Since he was shivering, she wrapped a shawl about him, and waited for him to tell her what else to do. * * * * * The shift of the moon thinned the shadows that had tricked first one and then another of those who had met in that rocky angle. Verrill pointed to the kit, and told her how to load the hypo. He had done this himself, many times, for those he knew he could not save. They lasted just as long, but avoided consciousness and pain. This had won him esteem. And now he was to learn how good his work had been.