Grace and Stacy were the only ones of the outfit who had not run out following the alarm. Grace had turned her pocket lamp on Elfreda’s face. It was a pallid face that she looked upon.
“Elfreda! Elfreda! What is it?” begged Grace. “Oh, what is it?”
Miss Briggs was breathing, but was unconscious.
The shooting died away as suddenly as it had started, and then Emma and Nora ran to Grace’s tent, crying out to know what had happened.
“I don’t know, girls. Please hold the light so I can examine her. I heard Elfreda scream, then came the shooting, and that is all I know about it,” answered Grace. Her nimble fingers ran over her companion’s head, neck and shoulders, for Grace’s experience in the hospital service in France had not only made her efficient in emergencies, but had taught her to keep her own self well in hand.
“Ah! Here it is.”
“Wha—what!” gasped Nora.
“A lump on the top of her head, well down near the forehead. She has been dealt a heavy blow, but with what, I can’t say. Fetch water. We must try to revive her.”
Lieutenant Hippy Wingate came running up at this juncture, revolver in hand.
“What is it?” he demanded.