The girl beamed upon her grizzled champion.
"Carl," she said to her angry cousin, "we must not quarrel. The whole world sees not as you do."
"But it should," grumbled the young man. "What am I to tell the Herr Lieutenant? I was sent to seize this station. Our own wounded will be brought in. We have the detested French on the run at last. The Herr Doktor will soon take charge here."
"I will report to him," said Belinda calmly. "And will be glad to continue to assist as I may. My ward is in good order, he will find. We need supplies and—I am afraid my little helper, the infirmier as they call him, Erard, has run away. Be kind to him if you find him, Carl."
"That is true, Corporal. He is a good little man," said Jacob. "And he can make soup."
"Gott! is that a recommendation to mercy?" and for the first time the young man laughed.
He was, after all, only a rosy-faced youth, Belinda thought.
"Attend to Ernest, please, Jacob," she said with confidence. "I will talk to my cousin."
"Cousin 'Linda," murmured Carl, with growing comprehension as he gazed upon her, "what a beauty you've grown to be! The photograph you sent us doesn't begin to do you justice."
"You flatter me, Carl," she said, surprising herself by her casual tone and manner. Yet her heart beat heavily in her bosom. The prospect before her seemed dark.