“She is killed!” gasped Jennie, gazing in horror at their fallen comrade and friend.
“Murdered!” shrieked Helen, and covered her face with her hands.
The Frenchwoman swept them both aside and entered the chamber. She was not more practical than the two American girls, but her experience of four years of war had made her used to such sights as this. She knelt beside the fallen girl, discovered that the wound upon her shoulder was not deep, and instantly heaved the heavy stone off the girl’s back.
“La, la, la!” she murmured. “It is sad! That so-heavy stone! Ah, the bone must be broken! Poor child!”
“Isn’t she dead?” gasped Helen. “No, no! She is very bad wounded-perhaps. See—let us turn her over—”
She spoke in English. It was Jennie who came to her aid. Between them they turned Ruth Fielding over. Plainly she was not dead. She breathed lightly and she was unconscious.
“Oh, Ruthie! Ruthie!” begged Helen. “Speak to me!”
“No!” exclaimed the matron. “Do not attempt to rouse her, Mademoiselle. It is better that the shoulder should be set and properly bandaged before she comes to consciousness again. Push that button yonder for the orderly—twice! That is it. We will lay her on her cot—poor child!”
The woman was strong as well as tender. With Jennie’s aid she lifted the wounded girl and placed her on her narrow bed. A man came running along the corridor. The matron instructed him in such rapid French that neither of Ruth’s friends could understand all that she said. The orderly departed on the run.
“To the operating room!” commanded the matron, when the brancardiers appeared with the stretcher.