Neither of them expected to reach the company, as they told one another
in after days. Their sole expectation was to drop with their burden on
the stony path of Ghoraphir, and leave their bones among the wild hill
tribes.

"McGregor, you have carried Archer all the way?--Incredible!" cried his
brother officers.

"Not I alone--Henderson helped. Let us improvise some kind of stretcher,
and get him on with us, men, for Heaven's sake."

A stretcher was obtained, and he was carried on, while the retreat
continued, the two companies alternately firing to keep back the enemy,
who pursued for three miles.

* * * * *

Henry lay helpless in a bare room in the fort--a blessed haven of refuge
for the sick and wounded. Dr. McGregor had invalids in every room; his
whole time was occupied, and his ingenuity was taxed to make the poor
fellows somewhat comfortable.

"Another death, Doctor," said the officer in command one morning.

"Indeed, yes; it is that brave chap, Henderson, who helped me to bring
Archer in. Bronchitis has carried him off; a man of fine physique; a
fine young fellow, and a countryman of my own. The cold of this mountain
district is fearful. I can't keep my patients warm enough, all I can
do."

"How is Archer? Will he pull through?"

"He is low to-day; but the limb is doing all right. There is more fever
than I like to see," and the surgeon, looking very grave, hurried away.

Not to neglect any duty, and yet to nurse his comrade as he ought to be
nursed was the problem our Jonathan had to solve.

Henry's fever ran high for several days, leaving him utterly weak. It
was midnight. The patient and his surgeon were alone; the latter
beginning to cherish a feeble hope, the former believing that he had
done with earthly things.

"You carried me on your back down Ghoraphir, old fellow," he said
faintly, stretching out a hand and arm that were dried up to skin and
bone.

"What of that, Henry? Keep quiet, I'd advise you."

"You took off your tunic and laid it over me on the stretcher. Henderson
told me that; and you might have caught your death of cold--"

"Hush, my good man; you are talking too much."

"You doctors are all tyrants. I _will_ speak, for I may not be able
again. Reach me that writing-case. Yes. Open it and take out the things.
The Bible--her own Bible--is for the mater, with my love. My meerschaum
is for Jack Dunn; and please tell them both that you looked