ness that looked down on him, with the warmth of mornig on it, and it pierced through the mists of death and the chaos of unconsciousness, and sank into his sight and heart, never again to be forgotten. While the sun was at its zenith and the day rolled onward, he was conscious, through all his anguish, despite all his stupor, of the fragrance of leaves that fanned his brow and stirred the heated air with southing movement, of the gentle murmur of river-waters sounding through the stillness, and—ever when his eyes unclosed and looked upward on the radiance of the day—of the face that he saw in the luminance of the light, even as the face of a guardian angel. And he knew no more in the dulness of lulled pain, in the languor of profound exhaustion.
The loud hay of a hound broke the silence when noon had long passed, the rapid rush of the dog's feet scoured over the rocks above and down the winding path; he had known that he had been bidden to seek succour, and had left those he first met no peace till they had followed him-two Moldavian peasants, herdsmen or stable-helpers, who had understood the meaning of the hound's impatient bark and whine.
At the sound of their steps she moved from