The other bent down and placed his hands under Gethryn’s arms, and—half helped, half by his own impatient efforts—Rex sat up, leaning against the other man. A sharp twinge shot through the numbness of his legs, and his eyes, seeking the cause, fell upon the body of a woman. She lay across his knees, apparently dead. Rex remembered her now for the first time. “Lift her,” he said weakly. The little man with some difficulty succeeded in moving the body; then Gethryn, putting one arm around the other’s neck, struggled up. He was stiff, and toppled about a little, but before long he was pretty steady on his feet. “The woman,” he said, “perhaps she is not dead.” “Dead she is,” said the Artist of the _Mirror_ cheerfully, gathering up his pencils, which lay scattered on the steps of the pedestal. He leaned over the little heap of crumpled clothing. “Shot, I fancy,” he muttered. Gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored to his limbs, went over to the place where she lay. “Have you a flask?” he asked. The little Artist eyed him suspiciously. “Are you a newspaperman?” “No, an art student.” “Nothing to do with newspapers?” “No.” “I don’t drink,” said the queer little person. “I never said you did,” said Gethryn. “Have you a flask, or haven’t you?” The stranger slowly produced one, and poured a few drops into his pink palm. “We may as well try,” he said, and began to chafe her forehead. “Here, take the whiskey—let it trickle, so, between her teeth. Don’t spill any more than you can help,” he added. “Has she been shot?” asked Gethryn. “Crushed, maybe.” “Poor little thing, look at her roll of music!” said Gethryn, wiping a few drops of blood from her pallid face, and glancing compassionately at the helpless, dust-covered figure. “I’m afraid it’s no use—” “Give her some more whiskey, quick!” interrupted the stranger. Gethryn tremblingly poured a few more drops between the parted lips. A faint color came into her temples. She moved, shivered from head to foot, and then, with a half-choked sob, opened her eyes. “Mon Dieu, comme je souffre!” “Where do you suffer?” said Gethryn gently. “The arm; I think it is broken.” Gethryn stood up and looked about for help. The Place was nearly deserted. The blue-jacketed hussars were still standing over by the Avenue, and an occasional heavy, red-faced cuirassier walked his sweating horse slowly up and down the square. A few policemen lounged against the river wall, chatting with the sentries, and far down the dusty Rue Royale, the cannon winked and blinked before the Church of the Madeleine.