The man flushed to the roots of his hair. All that he could think of were the ugly words he had spoken a short time before--and now Theriere was dying! Byrne would have laughed had anyone suggested that he entertained any other sentiment than hatred toward the second officer of the Halfmoon--that is he would have twenty-four hours before; but now, quite unexpectedly, he realized that he didn't want Theriere to die, and then it dawned upon him that a new sentiment had been born within him--a sentiment to which he had been a stranger all his hard life--friendship. He felt friendship for Theriere! It was unthinkable, and yet the mucker knew that it was so. Painfully he crawled over to the Frenchman's side. “Theriere!” he whispered in the man's ear. The officer turned his head wearily. “Do youse know me, old pal?” asked the mucker, and Barbara Harding knew from the man's voice that there were tears in his eyes; but what she did not know was that they welled there in response to the words the mucker had just spoken--the nearest approach to words of endearment that ever had passed his lips. Theriere reached up and took Byrne's hand. It was evident that he too had noted the unusual quality of the mucker's voice. “Yes, old man,” he said very faintly, and then “water, please.” Barbara Harding brought him a drink, holding his head against her knee while he drank. The cool liquid seemed to give him new strength for presently he spoke, quite strongly. “I'm going, Byrne,” he said; “but before I go I want to tell you that of all the brave men I ever have known I have learned within the past few days to believe that you are the bravest. A week ago I thought you were a coward--I ask your forgiveness.” “Ferget it,” whispered Byrne, “fer a week ago I guess I was a coward. Dere seems to be more'n one kind o' nerve--I'm jest a-learnin' of the right kind, I guess.” “And, Byrne,” continued Theriere, “don't forget what I asked of you before we tossed up to see which should enter Oda Yorimoto's house.” “I'll not ferget,” said Billy. “Good-bye, Byrne,” whispered Theriere. “Take good care of Miss Harding.” “Good-bye, old pal,” said the mucker. His voice broke, and two big tears rolled down the cheeks of “de toughest guy on de Wes' Side.” Barbara Harding stepped to Theriere's side. “Good-bye, my friend,” she said. “God will reward you for your friendship, your bravery, and your devotion. There must be a special honor roll in heaven for such noble men as you.” Theriere smiled sadly. “Byrne will tell you all,” he said, “except who I am--he does not know that.” “Is there any message, my friend,” asked the girl, “that you would like to have me deliver?” Theriere remained silent for a moment as though thinking. “My name,” he said, “is Henri Theriere. I am the Count de Cadenet of France. There is no message, Miss Harding, other than you see fit to deliver to my relatives. They lived in Paris the last I heard of them--my brother, Jacques, was a deputy.”