growth of hair. There seemed something ignominious in such an end, something futile and self- frustrating. It was unjust. It left everything so hideously incomplete. He revolted against it with a sullen and senseless rage.
"By God, you're not going to die!" declared the staring and sinewy-necked man at the bedside. "I say you 're not going to die. I 'm going to get you out o' here alive!"
A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face.
"Where to?" he asked, as he had asked once before. And his eyes remained closed as he put the question.
"To the pen," was the answer which rose to Blake's lips. But he did not utter the words. Instead, he rose impatiently to his feet. But the man on the bed must have sensed that unspoken response, for he opened his eyes and stared long and mournfully at his heavy-bodied enemy.
"You 'll never get me there!" he said, in little more than a whisper. "Never!"
