It was a poison, nevertheless, that was a tonic. It brought him to himself, and to a determination to subordinate his passions to his intellect. Let him recover a little, regain a moiety of his strength, and, instead of wasting his time in fruitless ravings, he would study to set his wits against his captors’, and win or die in the attempt to vindicate their superiority. He was lying on his back on the floor as he had fallen. For how long a time he had been stretched there he could not guess; but he was stiff and numb with cold, and all his agony of being seemed concentrated in a single flaring thread. This was underneath him, he fancied--a taut string of pain; and at first he could not account for it, or disassociate the sensation from some ridiculous travesties of delirium. He had been given a red-hot knife with which to carve his dinner--a joint all ribs and emptiness; he had thrust his hand into his pocket, which had been lined with a grid of steel blades; he had broken a great crystal goblet from which he was about to drink, and a keen fragment had sliced his arm. By and by the unfailing localization of these grotesque injuries led his recovering perceptions to the remembrance that his hands were tied behind him and that he was lying upon them. Then in a flash he recalled the final scene--the vicious swoop of the knife and the stinging pain that followed; and he recognized all at once that he had been stabbed. The nature of the wound--what was it? With an effort he turned upon his side. For all the cramp and torment in his arms he could move his fingers a little. The pressure on these maltreated limbs had wrought one benefit--it had stopped the flow of blood. But there was something else--something---- With the little weak cry he gave out, he rolled on to his back once more; for there had been a sound at the door, and a man came into the room. “Joe,” he said feebly--“Joe Corby!” The new-comer, looking down upon him, nodded. “How’s you?” said he. “I’m very bad, Joe. I’m hurt in body, and more in mind that you should lend yourself to this business. What makes you do it, Joe?” Mr. Corby’s answer was enigmatical and brief. “Bulbs,” said he. “Joe,” said the patient, “you’re a man of such few words that I hardly like to ask you to squander any on an explanation. Still circumstances have dulled my faculties.” “I spekilated in ’em,” said Joe, “and I were sold.” “I see, sold up. A man of courage would have turned and taken Fortune by the neck.” “Would he? It ain’t my way. You may thumb me in like a March onion for to come up in June, but if the ground don’t soot me I jumps out. Gardening was my ban and I tuk to the road. What’s the odds? Here be the Lake o’ Wine a-blossoming like a toolip at the end of it.” “But is it, Joe?” “Ain’t it, now? I speaks free, me and Rudland being left alone on guard.” “Why, where are the others?” The ex-gardener gave a ponderous wink.