Again he called out, "Leave him alone!" more roughly than ever.

Still deaf and blind to every consideration but one, Crayford pressed his entreaties on Frank.
"You owned yourself just now that you were not well seasoned to fatigue," he persisted.

"You feel (you _must_ feel) how weak that last illness has left you?
You know (I am sure you know) how unfit you are to brave exposure to cold, and long marches over the snow." Irritated beyond endurance by Crayford's obstinacy; seeing, or thinking he saw, signs of yielding in Frank's face, Wardour so far forgot himself as to seize Crayford by the arm and attempt to drag him away from Frank.
Crayford turned and looked at him.
"Richard," he said, very quietly, "you are not yourself.

I pity you.
Drop your hand." Wardour relaxed his hold, with something of the sullen submission of a wild animal to its keeper.

The momentary silence which followed gave Frank an opportunity of speaking at last.
"I am gratefully sensible, Crayford," he began, "of the interest which you take in me--" "And you will follow my advice ?" Crayford interposed, eagerly.
"My mind is made up, old friend," Frank answered, firmly and sadly.
"Forgive me for disappointing you.