"I wish I had Tim with me," Ralph said, to himself. "Tim would amuse me, and make me laugh. It would be desperately cold for him. I am all right, under my blanket and this warm coat. Well, I suppose I must try to sleep as many hours away as I can."
[Chapter 20]: Crossing The Lines.
Ralph was destined to a longer stay upon his hay bed in the loft than he had anticipated. The next day, instead of being better he was a good deal worse. Inflammation had again set in, and he was feverish and incoherent in his talk. He was conscious of this, himself, by seeing the dismay in the face of the nurse, when he had been rambling on to her for some time, in English.
At last, with an effort, he commanded his attention, and said to her:
"How far is it from here to Orleans?"
"Seventeen miles," she said.
"Look here," he said, "you are very kind, and I know that you do not want to be paid for your kindness; but I am well off, and I know you have lost your horse and cow, and so you must let me pay you for what you do for me.
"I am afraid I am going to have fever. I want your husband to go into Orleans. The Prussians went in yesterday, you say; and so your husband will not have to cross any outposts to get there. There is an English ambulance there. I will write a line in pencil; and I am sure they will give him some fever medicine, and anything else I may require. Please feel in the breast pocket of my coat; you will find a pocket book, with a pencil in it."
The woman did as he told her; and Ralph, with a great effort, wrote:
"I am an Englishman, though a captain in the French service. I am wounded with a saber, in the head; and am sheltered in a loft. Inflammation has set in and, I fear, fever. I am obliged, indeed, to make a great effort to master it sufficiently to write this. Please send some fever medicine, by the bearer, and some arrowroot. A lemon or two would be a great blessing.