“Perhaps you think, Gospodin officer, that I take a liberty with you. But, consider, I have watched a young man brought back from death to life—for you were yesterday very close to death. I know the cold snow-fields. I have lain there, too. It is not strange that I speak to you—ask for your health?”
“Not a bit—of course not,” agreed Bob, suddenly pitying, in spite of himself, this thin, pain-wracked sufferer who held himself up from his pillows with an effort that sent tremors through his nervous, overwrought frame. “Why don’t you lie down?” he asked. “You’re tiring yourself for nothing.”
The Russian lay back panting, but almost at once he demanded, breathlessly, “You will let me talk to you? Not now, perhaps, but soon—to-morrow? I have watched your face while you lay there. You are one of those Americans who thinks and acts——” He broke off, catching his breath.
Bob thought, “I wonder if he’s crazy.” Aloud he answered soothingly, “All right. Tell me anything you like. I can’t talk much yet, but I can listen.”
Before the other had time to answer the room door opened and Major Greyson, followed by the colonel in command at Archangel, came to Bob’s bedside. Behind them an orderly brought a lamp, which he placed on the table, for darkness had fallen over the snow-fields.
“Awake, are you, Captain Gordon? And feeling—how?” asked Colonel Masefield, taking Bob’s hand as he sat down by the cot. “You don’t look quite yourself, but Greyson here is encouraging.”
“I’m getting on all right, sir, and thank you for coming,” said Bob, returning the handshake with one that was still feeble.
“I had a cable from your father, Bob,” put in the surgeon. “He asked for any further news.”
“Didn’t make it any worse than you could help, did you?” asked Bob, hating to send bad news on Christmas Day.
“I said your leg was broken and you were suffering from shock but were not in danger,” replied Major Greyson, sitting down on a chair the orderly brought forward.