Doret was in a pitiable state, on the verge of exhaustion, for his vigil had been long and faithful; it was a nightmare period of suspense for him.  Occasionally he dozed, but only to start into wakefulness and to experience apprehensions keener than before.  The man was beside himself, and his anxiety had its effect upon Tom and Jerry.  Their compassion increased when they learned how Sam Kirby had been taken off and how Rouletta had been brought to this desperate pass.  The story of her devotion, her sacrifice, roused their deepest pity, and in the heat of that emotion they grew soft.

This mellowing process was not sudden; no spirit of forgiveness was apparent in either of the pair.  Far from it.  Both remained sullen, unrelenting; both maintained the same icy front.  They continued to ignore each other’s presence and they exchanged speech only with Doret.  Nevertheless, their sympathy had been stirred and a subtle change had come over them.

This change was most noticeable in Linton.  As the night wore on distressing memories, memories he considered long dead and gone, arose to harass him.  It was true that he had been unhappily married, but tune had cured the sting of that experience, or so he had believed.  He discovered now that such was not the case; certain incidents of those forgotten days recurred with poignant effect.  He had experienced the dawn of a father’s love, a father’s pride; he lost himself in a melancholy consideration of what might have been had not that dawn been darkened.  How different, how full, how satisfying, if—­As he looked down upon the fair, fever-flushed face of this girl he felt an unaccustomed heartache, a throbbing pity and a yearning tenderness.  The hand with which he stroked the hair back from her brow and rearranged her pillow was as gentle as a woman’s.

Jerry, too, altered in his peculiar way.  As the hours lengthened, his wrinkled face became less vinegary, between his eyes there appeared a deepening frown of apprehension.  More than once he opened his lips to ask Tom’s opinion of how the fight progressed, but managed in time to restrain himself.  Finally he could maintain silence no longer, so he spoke to Doret: 

“Mister!  It looks to me like she ain’t doin’ well.”

’Poleon rose from his position beside the stove; he bent over the sick-bed and touched Rouletta’s brow with his great hand.  In a low voice he addressed her: 

“Ma soeur!  Ma petite soeur!  It’s ’Poleon spik to you.”

Rouletta’s eyes remained vacant, her ceaseless whispering continued and the man straightened himself, turning upon his elderly companions.  Alarm was in his face; his voice shook.

“M’sieu’s!  W’at shall we do?  Queeck!  Tell me.”