Three pairs of eyes watched anxiously, as Strider gently lifted Frodo down from Bill. He cradled Frodo in his arms, and felt his brow. Merry had been right to call a halt; Frodo was burning up, save his left arm, which remained icy cold. He had no more athelas to deal with the wound, but he had prepared a flask with willow-bark tea before they set out. He roused Frodo slightly, to get him to take some of the bitter brew; then, looking at Frodo’s worried friends said, “We cannot stop. But I will carry him until the fever abates.”