Tor asked for the doctor, who quickly appeared, looking just as dried up as ever, but somewhat more anxious and constrained in manner, from which Tor feared he had formed an unfavourable opinion of his friend’s case. But he spoke more hopefully than before, and seemed to have great confidence in the sea voyage. He had taken other opinions, and all had agreed that the experiment should be tried. Once or twice he had fancied he detected some faint return of mental power, but it had never lasted. Still there seemed some probability that the change of air, the movement and the stir, might awaken the dormant faculties. The little doctor talked rapidly and energetically, and Tor quietly acquiesced in all he said. Then he asked to see his friend, and was taken up to the little clean, bare room that he so well remembered, and which he could fancy he had only quitted yesterday. Phil lay upon the bed, just as he had done before, his eyes closed, his breath coming somewhat heavily through the parted lips. His hair and beard had grown, and were wild and tangled. Tor was almost glad that the sheet half-concealed the lower part of the face. The brow and eyes and upper part belonged to the familiar face of his chosen friend and companion. Those were Phil’s well-known, well-cut features. He did not care to look below, where the changes induced by illness had given an air of neglect to the once carefully trimmed moustache and smooth-shaven cheeks. He looked down upon the unconscious face before him with an honest, manly compassion. ‘Poor old fellow! Poor old—Tor!’ he muttered (the little doctor stood opposite looking at him, so he must not trip, even in English). ‘Well, mein Herr,’ said the doctor, ‘what think you of your friend?’ ‘I don’t know what to think. He looks just the same to me. I suppose it’s no good my speaking to him? He wouldn’t hear?’ ‘You can try,’ answered Dr. Schneeberger with a dim interest in his tone. ‘If only he would go!’ thought Tor, but he could not suggest this, and it sounded a mockery to address the unconscious Phil by a false name. Still, he bent over him, and called rather loudly: ‘Tor! Torwood! wake up, old fellow! Don’t you know me—Phil Debenham? Tor, I say!’ Perhaps there was the faintest motion of the eyelashes—neither Tor nor the doctor could be certain; but the eyes remained fast closed, and no other words evoked the slightest sign of life. Tor gave one last long look, and turned away with a sigh. He almost wished he had never come. It was so melancholy to see the friend lie there helpless and vacant, whose help he needed so much.