Roger glares despairingly at Dulce, who is still trying to get some brandy down the wounded man's throat, and even as she does so Stephen's eyes unclose, and a heavy sobbing sigh escapes him. Strangely enough, as the two bend over him, and his gaze wanders from one face to the other, it rests finally, with a great sense of content, not on Dulce's face but Roger's. Instinctively he turns in his hour of need from the woman who had wronged him to the man whom _he_ had wronged in the first instance, and who--though he had suffered many things at his hands of late--brings to him now a breath from that earlier and happier life, where love--which has proved so bitter--was unknown. "Stephen! Dear old fellow, you are not _much_ hurt, are you?" asks Roger, tenderly. "Where is the pain? Where does it hurt you most?" "Here!" says Stephen, faintly, trying to lift one of his arms to point to his left side; but, with a groan, the arm falls helpless, and then they know, with sickening feeling of horror, that it is broken. Stephen loses consciousness again for a moment. "It is broken!" says Roger. "And I am afraid there must be some internal injury besides. What on earth is to be done, Dulce?" in a frantic tone; "we shall have him here all night unless we do something. Will you stay with him while I run and try to find somebody?" But Stephen's senses having returned to him by this time, he overhears and understands the last sentence. "No, don't leave me," he entreats, earnestly, though speaking with great difficulty. "Roger, are you there? Stay with me." "There is Dulce," falters Roger. "No, no; don't leave me here alone," says the wounded man, with foolish persistency, and Roger, at his wits' end, hardly knows what to do. "Are you anything easier now?" he asks, raising Stephen's head ever so gently. Dulce, feeling her presence has been thoroughly ignored, and fearing lest the very sight of her may irritate her late lover, draws back a little, and stands where he can no longer see her. "Try to drink this," says Roger, holding the flask again to Gower's lips and forcing a few drops between them. They are of some use, as presently a slight, a very slight tinge of red comes into his cheek, and his eyes show more animation. "It is very good of you, old man," he whispers, faintly, looking up at Roger. "I believe you are sorry for me, _after all_." The "after all" is full of meaning. "Why shouldn't I be sorry for you?" says Roger, huskily, his eyes full of tears. "Don't talk like that." "I know you think I behaved badly to you," goes on Stephen, with painful slowness. "And perhaps I did." "As to that," interrupted Roger, quickly, "we're quits there, you know; nothing need be said about that. Why can't we forget it? Come, Stephen, forget it all, and be friends again." "With all my heart," says Gower, and his eyes grow glad, and a smile of real happiness illumines his features for a moment.