A dozen times he was upon the point of pushing out into the dark. If he had followed his own impulse he would have taken some broad road and footed it hour after hour, through the night, through the next day, through the next night, and so till the end overtook him, striking him down in his tracks. He would get as far away as possible, keeping out under the broad expanse of the sky above. He could find rest only by taking a course straight on over the hills, turning aside for nothing, tearing a path through the tangle. But he still had his work to do. He must lend his strength to the boy so long as any strength was left. He must pound into him again and again the realization of life which he himself had been tempted to shirk. He must make him see,--must make him know. In recalling that scene in the room by the window, in recalling his own words to Arsdale, he felt strangely enough the force of his own thoughts entering into himself with new life. He listened as it were to himself. Even for him there were the Others. Down to the last arrow-sped minute there would still be the Others. Who knew what remained for him to do--charged with what influence might be even the manner in which he drew his last breath? If he stood up to it sturdily, if he faced death with his head high, his shoulders back, even though he might be cornered in his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might be wired silently into the heart of some poor devil struggling hard against his death throes and lend him courage. At the end of two hours he undressed and tumbled upon the bed. His room was next to Arsdale's room and during the night the latter came in. "I 've had bad dreams about you," the boy exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?" "I 'm not sleeping very well," Donaldson answered. "You haven't a fever or anything?" "No. Just restless." "I have n't slept very well myself. I 've been doing so much thinking. That keeps a fellow awake." "Yes--thinking does. You 'd better let your brain close up shop and get some rest." "I can't. I 've been chewing over what you said, and the more I think of it, the more I see that you have the right idea. The secret of keeping happy is to fight for others. It's the only thing that will make a man put up a good fight, isn't it?" "The only thing," answered Donaldson. "I don't understand why I did n't realize that before--with Elaine here. You 'd think she would make a man realize that." Donaldson did not answer. "I think one reason is," continued the boy, "that until now, until lately, she's been so nervy herself that she did n't seem to need any one. She 's been stronger than I. But last night she looked like a little girl. And now, I'd like to die fighting for her." Donaldson found the boy's hand. "Never lose that spirit," he said earnestly. "But remember, she 's worth more than dying for, she 's worth living for."