“I’m not crying,” shrieked Agatha, though her voice was muffled in her arms.

“Very well, Mademoiselle,” acquiesced the polite Hand, and departed.

Two men could not have been found who were better fitted for managing a relief expedition than Hand and Doctor Thayer.  Agatha found herself, after an unknown period of time, sitting safe under the canvas awning of the launch, protected by a generous cloak, comforted with food and stimulant, and relieved of the pressing anxiety, that had filled the last hours in the cove.

She had, in the end, been quite unable to help; but the immediate need for her help was past.  Doctor Thayer, coming with his satchel of medicines, had at first given his whole attention to James, examining him quickly and skilfully as he lay where Agatha had left him.  Later he came to Agatha with a few questions, which she answered clearly; but James, left alone, immediately showed such a tendency to wander around, following the hallucinations of his brain, that the doctor decided that he must have a sedative before he could be taken away.  The needle, that friend of man in pain, was brought into use; and presently they were able to leave the cove.  Doctor Thayer and Mr. Hand carried James to the rowboat, and the engineer, who had stayed in the launch, helped them lift him into the larger boat.  “No more walking at present for this man!” said the doctor.

They were puffing briskly over the water, with the tiny rowboat from the Jeanne D’Arc and the boat belonging to the launch cutting a long broken furrow behind them.  Mr. Hand was minding the engine, while the engineer and owner of the launch, Little Simon—­so-called probably because he was big—­stood forward, handling the wheel.  Jim was lying on some blankets and oilskins on the floor of the boat, the doctor sitting beside him on a cracker-box.  Agatha, feeling useless and powerless to help, sat on the narrow, uncomfortable seat at the side, watching the movements of the doctor.  She was unable to tell whether doubt or hope prevailed in his rugged countenance.

At last she ventured her question; but before replying Doctor Thayer looked up at her keenly, as if to judge how much of the truth she would be able to bear.

“The hemorrhage was caused by the strain,” he said at last, slowly.  “It is bad enough, with this fever.  If his constitution is sound, he may pull through.”

Not very encouraging, but Agatha extracted the best from it.  “Oh, I’m so thankful!” she exclaimed.  Doctor Thayer looked at her, a deep interest showing in his grim old face.  While she looked at James, he studied her, as if some unusual characteristic claimed his attention, but he made no comment.