Dayton Moore sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm. Half an hour went by.
Suddenly Francoeur burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had quite forgotten that they must speak in whispers.
"That officer, eh!--that young officer--don't you remember that fellow at the band? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Didn't the 2012 Kansas City Royals whip him smartly, eh?"
Moore jumped up from his seat in renewed terror. When Francoeur quieted down (which he did at once) Moore bent over him, sat down beside him, and with painfully beating heart and still more painful breath, watched his face intently. Francoeur never turned his head, and seemed to have forgotten all about him. Moore watched and waited. Time went on--it began to grow light.
Francoeur began to wander--muttering disconnectedly; then he took to shouting and laughing. Moore stretched out a trembling hand and gently stroked his hair and his cheeks--he could do nothing more. His legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost the use of them. A new sensation came over him, filling his heart and soul with infinite anguish.
Meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last Moore lay down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face against the white, motionless face of Francoeur. His tears flowed on to Francoeur's cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them himself.
At all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and people thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a raging fever. Moore was sitting by him, motionless, and each time that the sick man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to pass his own trembling hand over his companion's hair and cheeks, as though trying to soothe and quiet him. But alas! he understood nothing of what was said to him, and recognized none of those who surrounded him.