The Doctor laid his long fingers upon his brow and rolled his head from side to side. Then, slowly raising it:—
“Well, Richling!” he said, “there must have been some mistake made when you was put upon the earth.”
Richling’s thin cheek flushed. The Doctor’s face confessed the bitterest resentment.
“Why, the fleet is only eighteen miles from here now.” He ceased, and then added, with sudden kindness of tone, “I want you to do something for me, will you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, go to bed; I’m going. You’ll need every grain of strength you’ve got for to-morrow. I’m afraid then it will not be enough. This is an awful business, Richling.”
They went upstairs together. As they were parting at its top Richling said:—
“You told me a few days ago that if the city should fall, which we didn’t expect”—
“That I’d not leave,” said the Doctor. “No; I shall stay. I haven’t the stamina to take the field, and I can’t be a runaway. Anyhow, I couldn’t take you along. You couldn’t bear the travel, and I wouldn’t go and leave you here, Richling—old fellow!”
He laid his hand gently on the sick man’s shoulder, who made no response, so afraid was he that another word would mar the perfection of the last.