Bob closed the door behind him, overcome with pity and a dreadful feeling of helplessness at sight of Bertrand's long, thin figure shivering beneath the flimsy blankets. "You are ill, Captain? What can I do?" he stammered.
Then, realizing that Bertrand was in the clutches of a chill, and in no state to answer questions, he steadied his nerves and took things into his own hands with energy.
"You've eaten nothing," he said, looking at the bowl of coffee which the guard had placed on the stool beside the cot. "This is hot, at least." He broke a few crumbs of bread from the loaf on the stool into the steaming bowl and, raising Bertrand's shivering shoulders, put a spoonful to his lips. "Take it anyway, it will warm you," he urged, finally persuading the sick man to swallow a few spoonfuls, after which he tucked the blankets about him and built up the flickering fire.
"Wait a minute," he said presently, rising and darting to the door again. In a moment he was back, bringing one of his own blankets, which he wrapped around Bertrand's shaking body with anxious thoroughness.
"Your blanket?" faltered Bertrand, as his fit of shivering slowly lessened. "You must not give me that! This will pass in a few moments. It always comes before the fever."
"I have enough," said Bob, raising a spoonful of coffee again to Bertrand's lips. "Drink all this now, can't you? I've heated it at the fire, and it will help keep you warm. I am going to find a doctor for you, if it's humanly possible."
"He comes now and then," said Bertrand, raising himself to drink the hot liquid obediently, though his breath came quick and hard as he spoke. "It was he who would not have me moved the day the other French officers were transferred. You had better go now, comrade. The guard will not leave the door unlocked again if the sergeant discovers it."
Bob nodded, looking with anxious eyes at Bertrand's face, now losing its pallor for a flush, as no longer trembling, he lay wearily motionless. Bob renewed the fire again as well as he could, and readjusted the blankets, took an unwilling leave, only consoled at seeing that the chill had passed and that Bertrand seemed inclined to sleep.
At his own door he encountered the guard who, by the light of the lantern he held, looked sullenly at his enterprising American prisoner and rattled the keys suggestively. Bob gave him no time to voice his displeasure, but on entering the room said in such German as he could muster:
"Where is the doctor? When can he come here?"