He looked down upon the unconscious face before him with an honest, manly compassion.
‘Poor old fellow! Poor old—Tor!’ he muttered (the little doctor stood opposite looking at him, so he must not trip, even in English).
‘Well, mein Herr,’ said the doctor, ‘what think you of your friend?’
‘I don’t know what to think. He looks just the same to me. I suppose it’s no good my speaking to him? He wouldn’t hear?’
‘You can try,’ answered Dr. Schneeberger with a dim interest in his tone.
‘If only he would go!’ thought Tor, but he could not suggest this, and it sounded a mockery to address the unconscious Phil by a false name. Still, he bent over him, and called rather loudly:
‘Tor! Torwood! wake up, old fellow! Don’t you know me—Phil Debenham? Tor, I say!’
Perhaps there was the faintest motion of the eyelashes—neither Tor nor the doctor could be certain; but the eyes remained fast closed, and no other words evoked the slightest sign of life.
Tor gave one last long look, and turned away with a sigh. He almost wished he had never come. It was so melancholy to see the friend lie there helpless and vacant, whose help he needed so much.
That evening was spent in consultation with the doctor, and on the morrow Tor left for England again. He would gladly have been Phil’s travelling companion upon this voyage, but affairs at Ladywell would not permit of his prolonged absence. So he had to leave Phil in the care of the kindly Germans, who gave him many hopeful assurances, that when next he saw his friend he would be restored to health and strength.