Some of the wounded were delirious when they were brought in. Perhaps they were better off.
Nor was Ruth Fielding’s sympathy altogether for the wounded soldiers. It was, as well, for these young men who drove the ambulances—who took their lives in their hands a score of times during the twenty-four hours as they forced their ambulances as near as possible to the front to recover the broken men. She prayed for the ambulance drivers.
Hour after hour dragged by until it was long past midnight. There had been a lull in the procession of ambulances for a time; but suddenly Ruth saw one shoot out of the gloom of the upper street and come rushing down to the gateway of the hospital court.
This machine was stopped promptly and the driver leaned forward, waving something in his hand toward the sentinel.
“Hey!” cried a voice that Ruth recognized—none other than that of Charlie Bragg. “Is Miss Fielding still here?”
He asked this in atrocious French, but the sentinel finally understood him.
“I will inquire, Monsieur.”
“Never mind the inquiring business,” declared Charlie Bragg. “I’ve got to be on my way. I know she’s here. Get this letter in to her, will you? We’re taking ’em as far as Lyse now, old man. Nice long roll for these poor fellows who need major operations.”
He threw in his clutch again and the ambulance rocked away. Ruth left the window and ran down to the entrance hall. The sentinel was just coming up the steps with the note in his hand. Before Ruth reached the man she saw that the envelope was stained with blood!
“Oh! Is that for me?” the girl gasped, reaching out for it.