The attention of everyone was directed to this tragic struggle; the efforts of all were lent to the successful end. Jane Cable, dogged and tireless, came to be his nurse, now that the life thread still held together. It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell upon the wretched, harrowing scenes and incidents of the wilderness hospital. The misery of those who watched and waited for death; the dread and suffering of those who gave this anxiety; the glow of spiritual light which hovered above the forms of men who had forgotten their God until now.
The first night passed. There were sleepless eyes to keep company with the faint moans and the scent of chloroform. Over the figure of Graydon Bansemer hung the eager, tense face of Jane Cable. Her will and mind were raised against the hand of death; down in her soul she was crying! "You shall not die!" and he was living, living on in spite of death. The still, white face gave back no sign of life; a faint pulse and an almost imperceptible respiration told of the unbroken thread. Hoping against hope!
Dawn came, and night again, and still the almost breathless girl urged her will against the inevitable. She had not slept, nor had she eaten of the food they brought to her. Two persons, a soldier and a girl, stood back and marvelled at her endurance and devotion; the harassed surgeons, new in experience themselves, found time to minister to the seeming dead man, their interest not only attracted by his remarkable vitality but by the romance attached to his hope of living.
That night he moved, and a low moan came from his lips. The Goddess of Good Luck had turned her face from the rest of the world for a brief instant to smile upon this isolated supplicant for favour. Jane's eyes and ears had served her well at last; she caught the change in him and her will grasped the hope with more dogged tenacity than before. The word went out that there was a chance for him. Her vigil ended when Bray came to lead her away--ended because she dropped from exhaustion.
The next morning, after a dead sleep of hours, she returned to his side. The surgeon smiled and the nurse clasped her hands with tears in her eyes. Bansemer was breathing thickly and tossing in delirum. It was as if he had been lifted from the grave.
Lieutenant Bray was seated in front of the convent late that evening, moodily studying his own emotions. Teresa, still attired as she had been for weeks, hung about the chapel with the persistance of a friendless dog. He watched her and pitied her, even as he pitied himself for the wound he was nursing. What was to become of her? He called her to him.