“I would rather stay and be killed than go away and be safe.”
That aroused my suspicions. Perhaps they ought to have been aroused before; but, then, I am only a man. I saw how the Surgeon-Major had been managed.
“Please,” she repeated softly.
She laid her hand on my arm, and did not withdraw it when she found that the sleeve was wet with something that was thicker than water.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Oh, all right—stay!”
I was sorry for it the next day, when we had the old familiar music of the bullets overhead.
Later in the morning matters became more serious. The enemy had a gun with which they dropped six-pound shot into us. One of these fell on to the corner of our hospital where Boulson lay. It tore the canvas, and almost closed Boulson's career.
Nurse Fielding was at him like a terrier, and lifted him bodily from his cot. She was one of those largely framed fair women who have strength, both physical and mental.
She was carrying him across the tent when I heard the thud of a bullet. Nurse Fielding stopped for a moment and seemed to hesitate. She laid Boulson tenderly down on the ground, and then fell across him, while the blood ran from her cotton bodice over his face and neck.