In another moment it was opened, and Cabot, leaning heavily against it, fell into a room, small, warm, and brightly lighted.
For a few minutes he lay with closed eyes, barely conscious that his struggle for life had been successful, and that in some mysterious manner he had gained a place of safety.

Gradually he became aware that some one was bending over him, and opening his eyes he gazed full into a face that he instantly recognised, though it had sadly changed since he last saw it.

At that time it had expressed strength in every line, but now it was haggard and worn by suffering.
"The Man-wolf!" gasped Cabot, in a voice hardly above a whisper.
A slight smile flitted across the man's face, and then, without warning, he sank to the floor in a dead faint.

His mighty strength had been turned to the weakness of water, and the iron will had at length relaxed its hold upon the enfeebled body.

As the man-wolf fell, a stream of blood trickled from his mouth, and he choked for breath as though strangling.
There is nothing so effective in restoring spent strength as a demand upon it from one who is weaker, and at sight of the big man's helplessness Cabot was instantly nerved to renewed effort.