It was getting quite warm now and he felt drowsy; if he slept for a while he would then awake and ask God once more to save him; but no, if he fell asleep in the snow he would never awake again, for this treacherous snow would slay him with cold embraces. He would die--die. Ah! he could not die, even though lulled to sleep by the siren voice, and soft caressing of the snow queen; life was sweet, so he would fight to retain it. A long struggle and he was on his feet; the road! where was the road? he could not see it. Never mind, the snow and wind were at his back, he would walk on till he came to the bridge, then he would be in safety. Oh, the weary, weary miles--half dazed, half mad, he staggered on, reeling like a drunken man. Would the road never come to an end? Oh this incessant whirl of snow-flakes that he was in, it was the dance of death and he was the dancer. Quicker and quicker fell the flakes on the white common and over to the dark surface of the Gar but no figure was struggling along now; no, it was lying upon the bridge, a disordered heap of black clothing, which the snow was rapidly hiding beneath its soft white mantle. Over the bridge comes the horse and gig of a sturdy farmer who has to cross the wild white waste beyond to reach home, and the sturdy farmer himself with his buxom wife beside him drives the wise old horse. Suddenly the old horse shies at the figure lying in the snow--a start on the part of the farmer and his wife--then exclamations and calls for help, black figures come gliding over the snow like shadows, and kindly hands raise Duncan Nestley from his deadly resting-place. Take him to the inn, place him before a roaring fire, force some hot brandy between his blue lips, and rub his frozen limbs to bring back the circulation of the chill blood. Dead! no, not dead! he opens his eyes. In them there is no intelligence, only a vacant stare--he babbles a few words and then falls back in a faint. Delirious, yes, and delirious for many a long day, poor soul. CHAPTER XXXII. LONDON. London is the candle which, ever attracting country moths by its feverish glare destroys them remorselessly in its cruel flame.