As the southern train rushed on through the night, Sir Gaspard, sleepless on his comfortable bed, never dreamed that in the very last carriage of the train his acquaintance of the morning slept the sleep of the unjust, that is sounder than any. The last carriage--truly there was something in that famous luck of Marcus Wray! For as the pale light of dawn grew in the east something happened; what, there was hardly time to say. Only a jar, a crash; then for most people on that train a great void, a blotting out. The train had left the track; the engine was down an embankment; all the carriages but the very last a sickening, telescoped mass of shapeless wood. In that last carriage Marcus Wray was flung on the floor from a sound sleep. The lamp had gone out, in the dark a woman screamed, and the sharp sound brought back his senses. The train was wrecked! With a quickness beyond belief he was on his feet, had slipped between his struggling fellow passengers, and out the window, his narrow shoulders doing him good service. “Sir Gaspard--the will!” He ran frantically along the track, passing the dead and dying, thrusting a woman out of his way with brutal fingers. There was light now beside the coming dawn, the light of burning carriages; and from the reeking mass came sounds to turn a man sick, who had time to listen. This man with unerring instinct found the carriage in which he had been too poor to travel; it was to be entered now without paying his fare, for the whole side of it gaped. In the light of its burning roof he dragged at a heap that looked like clothing, but he knew that ten minutes since it had been living men. He lifted with all his strength, and dragged off the first figure of the mass. As if he were searching for one he loved, he turned the face to the light. A dead man--a stranger in a fur coat! He dropped the bleeding head as if it were but stone. The next? He panted as he tugged, for the dead are heavy, and the heat was scorching. This was a man, too, with his arms round another in a last instinctive protection. Parker--and he had given his life for his master! For the servant’s brains oozed warm under the lifting hands. Try as he might, Marcus Wray could not loosen the arms that were around that inert figure that had been Gaspard le Marchant! Was he dead--living? He could not tell. The heat was scorching the searcher as he dragged the two that lay clasped so close from the burning carriage together. In its light he knelt down beside them, gasping for breath in the cold dawn. Sir Gaspard’s face was hidden on the breast of his faithful servant. As a man who seeks a friend, Wray turned it toward him, tenderly, never forgetting that anywhere in that dreadful place there might be watchful eyes upon him. In spite of his caution, his breath came in a great sigh of relief.