The man looked not exactly embarrassed but disconcerted, surprised. His eyebrows rose a fraction, he flashed a swiftly inquiring glance at the Moor. The other nodded. "The captain's fever and delirium is very great, Mademoiselle," he said slowly. "We thought--" He hesitated. "The captain, in his wanderings, used your name frequently." She understood in a moment. Aylmer, in his fevered unconsciousness, had--what had he done? Placed himself, and her, in a false position? These stolid, unimaginative men, at any rate, regarded her as his fiancée! She was not eager, vehement, to rush to her lover's side! No wonder they showed astonishment. She stood silent, perturbed, at a loss. And the two impassive faces watched her. And again a tiny spasm of fear throbbed through her. Fate was fighting for this man, it seemed. Helpless, unconscious, cast away in this rat-hole in the wilderness, his plight worked for him where his own powers could not. His very helplessness appealed to her. Could she refuse the duty which was being plainly forced upon her by the mute message of those four watching eyes? Her imagination began to work. She saw a gloomy pit, a white face wasted with fever, heard a voice which, unconsciously, perhaps, but still appealingly, called upon her name. And this was the debonair soldier who had ridden out three days before to do--what? Her bidding, no less. A flush rose to her brow. "I have not a nurse's training," she assured Perinaud quietly, "but I will come with you, if you will wait." The sergeant saluted. "At Mademoiselle's service," he said placidly, and then turned towards his colleague and sighed, a deep suspiration eloquent of relief. At the door of the saloon she hesitated. She could see her father at his desk, bent over his papers, writing methodically. A sudden irritated sense of shyness fell upon her. Surely he, too, could not misunderstand. He looked round at her entrance. Without preamble she repeated the sergeant's report, speaking in level, matter of fact tones. She announced her decision to return with Perinaud and his escort. Her father's first comment was no more than his usual deferential little nod. But there was a slightly strained silence between them as she finished speaking--a silence which gave him time for reflection. "You think your presence necessary, likely to benefit him?" he said questioningly. She shrugged her shoulders. "He has been wounded in our service," she said. "These men seem to expect much of my nursing--I who have never nursed. I hardly see a way to refuse graciously." Again her father made his little obeisance of assent. "I could charge myself with an explanation," he said gravely. "There is no reason for you to go against your wishes. I fear there is little prospect of our being of real help."