The soldier hesitated and placed his hand to his forehead, looking at the girl dazedly.
“Why am I hiding here?” he repeated. Then almost childishly he went on: “I am hiding, hiding because no one must find me, else I would be shot at once. I don’t know how long I have been here alone. I am very cold.”
“But I don’t understand your reason,” Sally argued. “Why don’t you find some one to take care of you? You cannot be living here; besides you could not have been here long without food or water or you would have died.”
“But I have had a little food and water,” the soldier replied. “I found a few cans of food in a closet and there is water in one of the rooms.”
His voice had a complaining note which was an expression of suffering if one had understood. Then his face was feverish and wretched.
“But you don’t look as if you had used much water,” Sally remarked in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. She had a way of pursuing her own first idea without being influenced by other considerations.
“It is hard work when one’s arm is like this,” the soldier returned fretfully.
Again Sally surveyed the soiled bandage with disfavor. Apparently it had not been changed in many days, since it was encrusted with dirt and blood and having slipped had been pulled awkwardly back into place.
Temprementally, Sally Ashton hated the sight of blood and suffering. In the years of the Camp Fire training she had been obliged to study first aid, but she had left the practical application to the other girls. Her own tastes were domestic and she therefore had devoted her time to domestic affairs.
Now something must be done for the soldier whose presence in the old château and whose behavior were equally puzzling, and as there was no one else, Sally had no idea of shirking the immediate task. In her Camp Fire kit she always carried first aid supplies.