And a moment later as he ran his eyes over the paper, he added: “He must have died but a few minutes ago, for the blood is not yet dry upon the paper. Perhaps life yet lingers. Will not Doctor Lewis see?” The physician bent down assuming his formal professional air, and made a brief examination. He started and uttered a cry of surprise. “His heart beats faintly. He is not dead, but in a terribly death like swoon.” When they found that life still lingered they tore their handkerchiefs into strips and bound up his dreadful wounds. The physician applied restoratives. So great a sympathy does the sight of suffering stir in the human breast, that those who had been the most anxious to see him hanged last night now vied with each other in efforts to restore Oswald Ferris to life. And after a while their assiduity was rewarded, for with a long shiver from head to foot he opened his eyes and gazed around him. When he saw them all gazing at him with kind, anxious eyes, he was amazed. “I thought I had died,” he said, in a weak voice. “But how came you all here?” In the face of the actual pity and sympathy with which they now regarded him it was rather embarrassing to own the truth, but there was nothing else to do, really, and so, as he hastily compounded something out of his convenient pocket case of medicines, Doctor Lewis said, soothingly: “Well, the truth is, my poor fellow, we are here because we came out to look for you, and deuced lucky for you that we found you, too, for otherwise you must have perished unaided!” An expression of deep bitterness came over the face of the wounded man, and he turned impatiently from the potion Doctor Lewis extended to him. “You are determined not to cheat yourselves of the pleasure of stringing me up to a tree,” he moaned, weakly, yet sarcastically. Harvey Wilson came forward with rather a shamed look on his manly, bronzed face. “You are quite safe from our vengeance now,” he said. “Get well as fast as you please, Ferris, and no one will molest you for what you have done. These horrible creatures with their dreadful fangs have made us ashamed of having nearly been human wolves. Henceforth, we will leave vengeance to Him who has said, ‘Vengeance is mine.’” “And,” said Doctor Lewis, briskly, “We must construct a litter to carry this wounded man back to camp. He will need careful nursing if he recovers.” “I shall not recover--I do not wish to recover,” Ferris answered. “Do not trouble yourselves to take me back to camp. In a few hours I shall be dead.” Then he looked suddenly at his right hand. “I had a letter,” he said. “When I found that I was dying I wrote down the truth with a pen dipped in my heart’s blood. Did anyone find my confession?” Talbot Strangemore came forward at those anxious words. “I have it here, my poor fellow,” he said, gently, and he stooped and pressed his hand, adding, gratefully, “Thank you for remembering me when you believed that you were dying.” CHAPTER L.