"Now don't you wish you had gone on to Paris?" she asked.
"Not unless you came," he answered. "Look there!"
Another high explosive had burst, and where they had been sitting beside the road a rising column of smoke showed a hole.
"I—I——" whispered Henriette, and her eyes spoke what her lips could not.
But was the road the target? Another scream straight for them and again they thought: "This is death!" The explosion twenty or thirty yards short of the gully covered them with dust. A human something, red and blue, half rolled, half tumbled down the bank at their feet and lay there inert, stunned. A gash showed on the soldier's cheek and his hand reached for his arm where the torn flesh was trickling red. With the other he fumbled instinctively for a first field dressing.
Here was something positive to do. Phil, who had envied the cool officers directing their men in the preoccupation of action, tore down the sleeve and opened the dressing. There was silence now; no screams in the air; no explosions. Yes, utter silence had settled over the field except for the officer's commands. Drops of blood fell from the soldier's cheek on Phil's hands as he applied the first aid and Henriette's fingers were aimlessly hovering about trying to assist.
"You are a good spirit, Mademoiselle," said the soldier, happy in the realisation of life and the cessation of the shell-fire.
"Yes, Henriette," Phil added.
"I will go on," said the soldier, scrambling to his feet. "It is nothing."
"But are you strong enough?" Phil protested.