But Bob was more fortunate in his illness than he or Sergeant Cameron could guess. Before long it was made plain to them. A German officer visited Bob's room and told him with brief phrases in uncertain English of the negotiations for his exchange.
It was almost too much joy for one so weak and ill as Bob, and in the midst of his rejoicing his thoughts turned sadly to his faithful companion.
"Oh, Sergeant," he said the night the good news came, "I can't bear to have all the luck! It isn't fair."
"Never mind that, my lad," answered the brave old veteran, forgetting all titles of respect in the earnestness of the moment. "I'll do well enough here, but you'd not have stayed with me long. Thank God you can get out in time."
Ten days later, on a bright frosty morning, Mr. Leslie stood waiting at a little railway station on the Swiss frontier. He took little heed at first of the crowd around him, whose voices, high and low pitched, stern, anxious, hopeful or merry, as they spoke for busy government officials, Red Cross workers, or for the mothers, wives or children of returning prisoners, sounded in his ears. In a babel of French, German, Flemish and English they were giving voice to their impatient hopes and lingering fears, until Mr. Leslie's tumultuous thoughts seemed to become a part of theirs, and he turned to look at the picturesque waiting groups with an understanding sympathy in his kind eyes.
His face was rather weary, and his ready smile a little slower than when he had left America such a short while before. Even in peaceful Switzerland some of the great war's tragedy had been vividly unrolled before him. His search for Bob, through the Spanish Embassy at Berlin, had been a short one, for American prisoners were few and easily identified, but after that had come hopeless days of waiting in which he had looked failure in the face. The German government showed no inclination to set Bob free, and Mr. Leslie would have gone home unsuccessful if the prisoner he sought had not become a trial and menace to the prison camp that harbored him. Mr. Leslie blessed the fever as he waited for the train that was bringing Bob to the frontier. This realization of his highest hopes brought a warm flood of joy to his heart as he thought of the message that was even then winging its way across the sea.
Suddenly a little commotion rose among the crowd of people. They cried out and pointed around the bend of track, among the trees. At Mr. Leslie's side a little girl begged to be raised to her mother's shoulders, and the woman, as she lifted her, had tears streaming down her pale young face. The puff of smoke around the bend thickened, the engine whistled, and slowly the long train came into view. A wild cheer went up from men's and women's throats along the platform. Mr. Leslie swallowed hard and winked the mist from his eyes. His heart was beating faster than was comfortable as he went forward, as near as the watchful guards allowed, to meet the slowing train.
Inside, stretchers were made ready for those prisoners—and they were many—who could not walk from their places; others, who had lain on their stretchers on stationary racks along the car, were lifted out by willing and tender hands. But all who by any exertion of courage and strength could walk out unassisted made shift to do so, and with these Bob Gordon stood up wearily and tried his legs to make sure they would hold him.
"No, I'm all right—I don't need you, merci," he told a waiting attendant, not caring whether he spoke French or English. He was only afraid that his head would burst with the rush of joy that came at sight of that little station, with the far-off mountains behind it, that spot outside of Germany which told him he was free. He saw his feelings reflected in the worn faces about him—no pain had power to check it for that moment—and with a sudden return of some of his old agile strength, Bob walked from the car and stepped down upon the platform.