“Gently, Wardour,” said Captain Helding.  “A man who is in the right can afford to speak with moderation.”  He turned to Crayford.  “You must admit yourself,” he continued, “that Wardour is right this time.  The missing man belongs to my command, and in common justice one of my officers ought to supply his place.”

It was impossible to dispute the matter further.  The dullest man present could see that the captain’s reply was unanswerable.  In sheer despair, Crayford took Frank’s arm and led him aside a few steps.  The last chance left of parting the two men was the chance of appealing to Frank.

“My dear boy,” he began, “I want to say one friendly word to you on the subject of your health.  I have already, if you remember, expressed my doubts whether you are strong enough to make one of an exploring party.  I feel those doubts more strongly than ever at this moment.  Will you take the advice of a friend who wishes you well?”

Wardour had followed Crayford.  Wardour roughly interposed before Frank could reply.

“Let him alone!”

Crayford paid no heed to the interruption.  He was too earnestly bent on withdrawing Frank from the expedition to notice anything that was said or done by the persons about him.

“Don’t, pray don’t, risk hardships which you are unfit to bear!” he went on, entreatingly.  “Your place can be easily filled.  Change your mind, Frank.  Stay here with me.”

Again Wardour interfered.  Again he called out, “Leave him alone!” more roughly than ever.  Still deaf and blind to every consideration but one, Crayford pressed his entreaties on Frank.

“You owned yourself just now that you were not well seasoned to fatigue,” he persisted.  “You feel (you must feel) how weak that last illness has left you?  You know (I am sure you know) how unfit you are to brave exposure to cold, and long marches over the snow.”

Irritated beyond endurance by Crayford’s obstinacy; seeing, or thinking he saw, signs of yielding in Frank’s face, Wardour so far forgot himself as to seize Crayford by the arm and attempt to drag him away from Frank.  Crayford turned and looked at him.

“Richard,” he said, very quietly, “you are not yourself.  I pity you.  Drop your hand.”

Wardour relaxed his hold, with something of the sullen submission of a wild animal to its keeper.  The momentary silence which followed gave Frank an opportunity of speaking at last.

“I am gratefully sensible, Crayford,” he began, “of the interest which you take in me—­”

“And you will follow my advice?” Crayford interposed, eagerly.

“My mind is made up, old friend,” Frank answered, firmly and sadly.  “Forgive me for disappointing you.  I am appointed to the expedition.  With the expedition I go.”  He moved nearer to Wardour.  In his innocence of all suspicion he clapped Wardour heartily on the shoulder.  “When I feel the fatigue,” said poor simple Frank, “you will help me, comrade—­won’t you?  Come along!”