He wandered through great spaces of oblivion, intersected with terrible streaks of excruciating pain. During the intervals of this fearful suffering he was acutely conscious, but he invariably forgot everything again when the merciful unconsciousness came back. He knew in a vague way that he lay in a hospital-tent with other dying men, knew when they moved him at last because he could not die, suffered agonies unutterable upon an endless road that never seemed to lead to anywhere, and finally awoke to find that the journey had been over for several days. He tried very hard not to wake. Waking invariably meant anguish. He longed unspeakably for Death, but Death was denied him. And when someone came and stooped over him and took his nerveless hand, he whispered with closed eyes an earnest request not to be called back. "It's such--a ghastly business--" he muttered piteously--"this waking." "Won't you speak to a friend, Piers?" a voice said. He opened his eyes then. He had not heard his own name for months. He looked up into eyes that gleamed hawk-like through glasses, and a throb of recognition went through his heart. "You!" he whispered, striving desperately to master the sickening pain that that throb had started. "All right. Don't speak for a bit!" said Tudor quietly. "I think I can help you." He did help, working over him steadily, with the utmost gentleness, till the worst of the paroxysm was past. Piers was pathetically grateful. His high spirit had sunk very low in those days. No one that he could remember had ever done anything to ease his pain before. "It's been--so infernal," he whispered presently. "You know--I was shot--through the heart." Tudor's face was very grave. "Yes, you're pretty bad," he said. "But you've pulled through so far. It's in your favour, that. And look here, you must lie flat on your back always. Do you understand? It's about your only chance." "Of living?" whispered Piers. "But I don't want to live. I want to die." "Don't be a fool!" said Tudor. "I'm not a fool. I hate life!" A tremor of passion ran through the words. Tudor laid a hand upon him. "Piers, if ever any man had anything to live for, you are that man," he said. "What do you mean?" Piers' eyes, dark as the night through which he had come, looked up at him. "I mean just that. If you can't live for your own sake, live for hers! She wants you. It'll break her heart if you go out now." "Great Scott, man! You're not in earnest!" whispered Piers. "I am in earnest. I know exactly what I am saying. I don't talk at random. She loved you. She wants you. You've lived for yourself all your life. Now--you've got to live for her." Tudor's voice was low and vehement. A faint sparkle came into Piers' eyes as he heard it. "By George!" he said softly. "You're rather a brick, what? But haven't you thought--what might happen--if--if I went out after all? You used to be rather great--at getting me out of the way."