“My dear doctor, I have the fullest confidence in your judgment,” with a deprecating gesture.
“I should say that owing to your sojourn in that confounded India your case has been considerably aggravated and has become more severe; it is not now acute or at all serious, but requires careful attention. Avoid excitement and do not undertake anything which will strain your physical powers. I regret that I must be strict with you with regard to your diet and habits. But when you arrive at Brindisi, go to Karlsbad, and in a few weeks you’ll be well enough to take up the affairs of your country.”
“Thank you, doctor. But to me time means the trust and perhaps the fate of others. It is, therefore, more than a question of self. Doctor, how long do you give me?”
The doctor flushed and looked pained. “Count, you must believe what I have said. I will not hide from you that you are in a serious condition but—once you get on land and out of this floating inferno, you’ll be as well as ever, I think. Don’t attempt to do too much now and don’t worry.”
“Thank you most sincerely, doctor. Well, I suppose even a diplomat can live plainly and give up wine and tobacco.”
He bade the doctor a pleasant “au revoir” and sauntered toward the ship’s side. In deep thought he leaned against the railing, gazing into the now fiery sienna of the horizon. The smile on his lips faded, his assumed indifference had left him. Deep lines of care contracted his brow and the eyes looked troubled and sad.
A quick step and a cheerful voice called out heartily, “Good evening, Excellency! Dreaming or thinking—or both?”
Heavily set, smooth-faced and jovial, Captain Pollard of the ship walked toward him.
“My dear Captain, I am only too glad to have you break in on my dreams. They were not the rosiest just now, even though the evening looks beautiful enough to charm an anchorite.”
The Captain nodded his head. “That red sky is rather a promise of another hot day for to-morrow, Count. In a few hours we’ll be in the Red Sea, the furnace of creation. I am afraid to-morrow will be a broiler. Look, Count, there to our left is the Ras Séan with the cloud wreath on top of him. In an hour we shall be in ‘Bab El Mandeb,’ the Gate of Dirge of the Arab. Gloomy premonition, I call that. We are going fine and are ahead of our schedule.”