a Buddhist prayer unintelligible to Roberts.
"Never mind that now. The first thing is to make you comfortable. You are safe. Don’t forget that. Later we can talk. I have many questions to ask you, but the night is long."
The slight frame shook.
"Something over six—maybe ten years. What year is this? . . ." His voice seemed to fail. He lay back, occasionally coughing, but for the most part silent.
A half hour dragged by. Roberts did nothing save inspect the wound he had made, and occasionally give a spoonful of stimulant to the prostrate man. The latter's heart action was faint, but constant. Roberts knew he would live till morning, at least.
"I have talked to myself, to the lepers' priests, to the sands—in English," he said suddenly. "That's why I remember. My name's Bowen—Wade Hilton Bowen. Calliagraphist for the Central Historical Society. My home was on Perry street, Montgomery, Alabama. A nice house, with barn for six horses. Box stalls . . . I have said this many times. . ."
"Montgomery has changed since you were there," put in Roberts, quietly. "I'll tell you more about it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow . . . . tomorrow in hell!" he coughed, and then was silent again.
Roberts, bringing all his mental cohorts to bear upon the possible relation between this queer derelict of the desert and his two companions, made no attempt to string on the conversation.
One hour before dawn the man tried to sit up, strangled in a fit of terrible coughing, and then fell sidewise.
"Can't—can't lie on my back," he gasped. "Spine bowed. Hurts. How—how long have I got?"
"You'll get well," Roberts assured him. "I'll take care of you. Here, try a little more whisky. I want to ask you a lot of questions when you're able to stand the strain."
"Um-m. Good whisky. Used to like it. Forgot there was such a thing. You've no notion how a man forgets. . . ." His voice was low, rambling, jerky. "Won't get well, though. Hope not. They fixed me. Found out I was immune. . . . you know, leprosy. They all have it. Want everybody in the world to get it. But there are worse things. . . ."
Coughing cut short his speech for a moment.
"Not many," said Roberts with a shudder. "I thought you were one of them, and so I put on gloves. They've captured my two comrades. What I want to know as quickly as possible is whether you can help me rescue them. Can you!"
"Captured two men?" repeated the other vaguely. "Shouldn't allow it. Better die with a nice, clean bullet. That's the way I’m going to finish it. You've got a gun. You'll lend me just one bullet? I'm not dying fast enough."
His skinny hand made a weak grab for Roberts' revolver, but the latter shifted his holsters out of reach.
"No! I've got to have your help."
"Help!" sniveled the prostrate man in bitter impotence. "Don't you see what I am? I'm sorry about those men. They'll wish for quick death, but it won't come. Like as not they'll be put in the leper chambers. I was there for two years. There were six of us. All of them got it but me. They were Chinkies and played me dirt, or I'd have made them immune, too.
"But maybe it would have been better if I'd caught it. Then they'd have let me alone. They got jealous. Just seeing a healthy man makes 'em crazy. Moat people wouldn't understand how mad they get. They want to kill, but not all at once. Oh, no! Death like that is quick and sweet. I used to be a coward about it, but
