It was a hard battle which Denis Oglethorpe fought during the next fortnight, in that small chamber of the wayside inn at St. Quentin; and it was a stern antagonist he waged war against--that grim old enemy, Death. But, with the help of the little doctor, the _vis medicatrix natural_, and his three nurses, he gained the victory at length, and conquered, only by a hair's breadth. The fierce fire of the brain wearing itself out, left him as weak as a child, and for days after he returned to consciousness, he had scarcely power to move a limb or utter a word. When first he opened his eyes upon life again, no one was in the room but Priscilla Gower; and so it was upon Priscilla Gower that his first conscious glance fell. He looked at her for a minute, before he found strength to speak. But at last his faltering voice came back to him. "Priscilla," he whispered weakly. "Is it you? Poor girl!" She bent over him with a calm face, but she did not attempt to caress him. "Yes," she said. "Don't try your strength too much yet, Denis. It is I." His heavy wearied eyes searched hers for an instant. "And no one else?" he whispered again. "Is no one else here, Priscilla?" "There is no one else in the room with me," she answered, quietly. "The rest are up-stairs. You must not talk, Denis. Try to be quiet." There was hardly any need for the caution, for his eyes were closing again, even then, through sheer exhaustion. Theo was in her room lying down and trying to rest. But half an hour later, when Pamela came up to her bedside, the dark eyes flew wide open in an instant. "What is it, Pam?" she asked. "Is he worse again?" Pam sat down on the bedside, and looked at her with a sort of pity for the almost haggard young face drooping against the white pillow. "No," she said. "He is better. The doctor said he would be, and he is. Theo, he has spoken to Priscilla Gower, and knows her." Theo sat up in bed, white and still--all white, it seemed, but her large hollow eyes. "Pamela," she said. "I must go home." "Where?" said Pam. The white face turned toward her pitifully. "I don't know," the girl answered, her voice fluttering almost as weakly as Denis' had done. "I don't know--somewhere, though. To Paris again--or to Downport," with a faint shudder. And then, all at once she flung up her arms wildly, and dropped upon them, face downward. "Oh, Pam," she cried out, "take me back to Downport, and let me die. I have no right here, and I had better go away. Oh, why did I ever come? Why did I ever come?" She was sobbing in a hysterical, strained way, that was fairly terrible. Pamela bent over her, and touched her disordered hair with a singularly light touch. The tears welled up into her faded eyes. Just at the moment she could think of nothing but the day, so far away now, when her own heart had been torn up by the roots by one fierce grasp of the hand of relentless fate--the day when Arthur had died. "Hush, Theo," she said to her, "don't cry, child."