As soon as he set eyes on the wound he rated me soundly for not having it seen to before, and I bore it meekly.  His patient was his only concern.  He did not ask a single question as to how it was caused, or where we came from.  It seemed, however, to puzzle or annoy him.  He pinched his lips and shook his head over it, and said angrily, “’Cre nom-de-Dieu!  It should have been seen to before!”

“But, monsieur,” I said, “we have no doctor, else I would not have brought him here.”

“But, nom-de-Dieu! that bullet should have been got out at once.  It is pressing on the brain.  It may have set up inflammation, and what that may lead to the good God alone knows!”

“Pray get it out at once, monsieur.”

“Ay, ay, that’s all very well, but the damage may be done, and now, ’cre nom-de-Dieu, you expect me to undo it.”

“I am sorry.”

“Sorry won’t set this right,”—­with a shake of the head like an angry bull,—­“No—­’cre nom-de-Dieu!”

He was a rather violent old man, but skillful with his terrible little tools, and he worked away with them till I left him hurriedly.

He came out after a time with the bullet in his hand, “Le v’la,” he said tersely.  “And if that was all—­bien!  But—!” and he shook his head ominously, and talked of matters connected with the brain which were quite beyond me, but still caused me much discomfort.

He told me what to do and promised to return next day.

Torode—­I never could bring myself to think of him as my father—­came to himself during the night, for in the morning his eyes were open and they followed me with a puzzled lack of understanding.  He evidently did not know where he was or how he got there.  But he lay quietly and asked no questions except with his eyes.

When the doctor came he asked, “Has he spoken yet?”

“Not yet;” and he nodded.

“How long must he stop here, Monsieur le Docteur?”

“It depends,” he said, looking at me thoughtfully.  “Another week at all events.  You want to take him home?”

“He is better at home.”

“I must keep him for a week at all events.”

So that day I took over some provisionings for Krok, and found him well advanced with his building.  He had got the walls of a small cabin about half-way up, and had collected drift timber enough to roof it and to spare.  I told him how things stood, put in a few hours’ work with him on the house, and got back to Rozel.

“Has he spoken?” was the doctor’s first question next day.

“Not a word.”

“Ah!” with a weighty nod, and he lifted Torode’s left hand, and when he let it go it fell limply.

And again, each day, his first question was, “Has he spoken?” And my reply was always the same.  For, whether through lack of power or strength of will I could not tell, but certain it was that no word of any kind had so far passed between us.