"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" he cried.
"What is the matter with you, Erard? You have deserted me!"
The infirmier pushed farther into the ward. He had a knapsack strapped to his shoulders and carried a cheap straw bag.
"Everybody goes, Mademoiselle!" he cried. "It is retreat! Hear?"
A terrific explosion sounded near—then a fusillade of bombs. Several German Fokkers had got by the French air scouts and were raining missiles upon the sector, while the "Big Berthas" were getting the range of the villages back of the line. These hamlets had been shelled before, and the people knew what it meant. Old Minerva had been packed up, ready to leave, before the girl had started for the hospital.
"What has that to do with us, Erard?" the nurse demanded. "Our duty is here. They have not yet ordered the evacuation of our ward."
"Nor will they, Mademoiselle," cried the little infirmier. "These sales Boches! Let them lie! Let their own guns cut them to shreds! They shell the hospital now."
His shriek arose above that of the shell that landed within the hedge. A window was broken. Belinda ran to pick up the bits of glass and close the aperture as best she could against the draft.
Erard had gone. She looked out of the door. A throng of orderlies, frightened nurses, the last of the French wounded, were crowding to the entrance gate.
The médecin chef was trying to preserve order and to "count noses." He was getting them off in the motor-busses and ambulances commandeered for the occasion. He turned and saw Belinda and beckoned commandingly.