The man rose, and left the side of the bed, for Claire to take his seat.
“He is to be kept very quiet, ma’am. Doctor’s orders,” said the man respectfully. “I shall be just outside if you want anything.”
Fred was lying with his eyes half closed, but he heard the voice and opened them, recognised his visitors, and tried to raise his hand, but it fell back upon the coverlid.
“Claire?” he said in a voice little above a whisper. “An officer?”
He smiled sadly, and then seemed half choked by a sob, as Claire threw herself on her knees by him and Morton went to the other side, bent over, and laid his hand upon that lying helpless upon the coverlid.
“Fred, old fellow,” said Morton in a husky voice.
He could say no more, but stood looking down upon the prostrate figure, awe-stricken at the ravages caused by the wound.
“Fred—dearest Fred,” whispered Claire, kissing the hand she held.
The wounded man groaned.
“No, no,” he said faintly. “You should not be here; I am no fit company for you now.”