CHAPTER XIII.
A KEEPSAKE.
Bressant's collar-bone was broken; there were two severe bruises on his leg, though it had escaped fracture; his body in several places was marked with dark contusions, and there was a cut in the back of his head, where he had fallen against a stone.

The professor set the collar-bone--a harrowing piece of work, there being no anesthetics at hand--and attended to the other hurts, the patient all the while preserving a dogged and moody silence, and avoiding the eyes of whoever looked at him.
"Can't understand it," said the old gentleman to himself; "the fellow acts like a wild-beast as regards his appreciation of human sympathy, in spite of his refined intellect and cultivation.

A wounded animal has the same instinct to crawl away, and suffer in private." When brought into the house, Bressant had been laid in the spare room adjoining the professor's study.

After he had done all he could for his comfort, the warm-hearted old gentleman, being overcome with fatigue, retired to rest; the patient lay sullenly quiet, wishing it were day, and, again, wishing day would never come: at length the composing draught which had been given him took effect, and he sank heavily into sleep.
It was broad daylight when he awoke, and stared feverishly around him.
The room was a pleasant one, facing the north and east, and the morning sun came cheerfully in through the open windows, slanting down the walls, and brightening on the carpet.

It was a great improvement upon his rather gloomy room at the boarding-house, and he could not but feel it so.