Dr. McGregor had invalids in every room; his
whole time was occupied, and his ingenuity was taxed to make the poor
fellows somewhat comfortable.
"Another death, Doctor," said the officer in command one morning.
"Indeed, yes; it is that brave chap, Henderson, who helped me to bring
Archer in. Bronchitis has carried him off; a man of fine physique; a
fine young fellow, and a countryman of my own. The cold of this mountain
district is fearful. I can't keep my patients warm enough, all I can
do."
"How is Archer? Will he pull through?"
"He is low to-day; but the limb is doing all right. There is more fever
than I like to see," and the surgeon, looking very grave, hurried away.
Not to neglect any duty, and yet to nurse his comrade as he ought to be
nursed was the problem our Jonathan had to solve.
Henry's fever ran high for several days, leaving him utterly weak. It
was midnight. The patient and his surgeon were alone; the latter
beginning to cherish a feeble hope, the former believing that he had
done with earthly things.
"You carried me on your back down Ghoraphir, old fellow," he said
faintly, stretching out a hand and arm that were dried up to skin and
bone.
"What of that, Henry? Keep quiet, I'd advise you.
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