"The Prince, he is ill," she went on in her voluble French. "He is not master of himself, as you well know. He is not to be trusted to make a decision. Sir John shall do it. He is captain."
"It should be done with all my heart and now, Mademoiselle," I said, "if we could put any reliance on the man's word. But how can we after his acts, after this bloody mutiny?"
She clasped her hands together in terror. "Then we shall be doomed to death, Monsieur. Ah, try, consent! Let us see what he will offer. Sir John shall do it for me whose life is at stake."
I was sorry for her fears, and her agitation embarrassed me. Heaven knew I understood the situation even more clearly than she, and to me it was formidable, pregnant with peril. But what could I do? I did what I could to reassure her, which was little enough, and I left her weeping. The singing-bird had become suddenly conscious of her danger, and was beating wildly against the bars of her cage. Poor singing-bird!
Princess Alix had taken upon herself the office of nurse to her brother, and although he refused to acknowledge the necessity of a nurse, he seemed glad to have her in his room. When I entered early in the afternoon after tending my other patients, they were talking low together in German, a tongue with which, as I think I have said, I was not very familiar. But I caught some words, and I guessed that it was of home they spoke, and the linden-trees in the avenue before the castle of Hochburg. The Princess's face wore a sad smile, which strove to be tender and playful at once, but failed pitifully. And she dropped the pretence when she faced me.
"Dr. Phillimore, my brother is not so well. He—he has been wandering," she said anxiously under her breath.
I had been afraid of the dent in the head. I approached him and felt his pulse.
"It will not be long, doctor, before we have these scoundrels hanged," he said confidently, nodding to me in his grave way. "We have nearly finished our work."
"Yes," said I, "very nearly."
I did not like his looks. He raised himself in his chair. "'Den Lieben langen Tag,' Alix. Why don't you sing that now? You used to sing it when you were but a child," he said, relapsing into German. "Sing, Alix." He stared about as if suddenly remembering something. "If Yvonne were here, she would sing. Her voice is beautiful—ach, so beautiful!"