“Oh! the pity of it all,” she murmured, putting a cup of water to the quivering lips of a sufferer, a mere lad, wearing the brilliant uniform of a French trooper, with a gaping wound in his shoulder.
Henri, leaning forward to give the nurse a bandage from the packet he was carrying, caught sight of the soldier’s upturned face.
“My brother Francois!” he moaned, dropping on his knees beside the litter.
The wounded soldier opened his eyes, and the agony of his hurt did not keep him from smiling.
CHAPTER XV.
FAREWELL TO FRANCOIS.
“You’re feeling better now; I know you are; really, you must say that, Francois. I can’t bear to see you lying there so still and so white.”
Henri hovered about the cot of his wounded brother after the surgeon had dressed and bandaged the injured shoulder.
He had forgotten the war storm that raged outside, and even for the moment ceased to remember that his dearest chum, Billy, was ever at his elbow with ready sympathy.
“Tell me, Francois,” Henri pleaded, “that you are going to get well.”