"He is a beast!" she thought.
And seeing the still form of Frank Sanderson at the bottom of the ward she renewed her secret determination to save the American aviator from "the beast."
The surgeon halted beside Number Seventeen and examined him with his quick, sure touch. The wonderfully supple fingers seemed to have retained all their skill. The man tried to tell the doctor something.
"Be still!" commanded the Prussian. "Do you suppose you can tell me anything about your case that I do not already know? Dummkopf!"
His diametrically opposed statements regarding these two cases merely displayed the bullying, dogmatic mind of the man. Belinda had often observed it before, and scorned Doctor Herschall for it. The Prussian ego was as hateful in her eyes now as ever.
"Soh!" he said to her suddenly, in English and speaking so that nobody but the girl herself could hear. "I find you here, Miss Belinda? What does it mean—this masquerade? Surely you are not fool enough to be a secret agent for the French?"
Fortunately his tone and words angered her, and in her wrath she found strength to face him. She ceased to tremble, and in brief, brusque sentences explained how she came to be in her present equivocal situation.
"Hum! I see," he muttered. "I recognized your handwriting on the chart of this case, which the doctor brought me," Doctor Herschall said with a careless gesture toward Number Seventeen. He neglected to state that the inquiry from the French corps commander for news of Mademoiselle Melnotte, referred to his attention, had already aroused his curiosity and suspicion.
"I had seen your writing too many times before," pursued the surgeon, eying Belinda with narrowing gaze, "to be mistaken, despite the difference in the writing of English and German. Oh, yes, I should know your chirography under any circumstances, Miss Belinda. The vision of—hum!—admiration is never blinded. Hum! So you were left behind when the crazy French retreated? And you have two young cousins to defend you—no?"
"Yes," she said doubtfully.