"And I'd have you know," said Paul with sudden fierceness, "that I am serious, too, Cousin Belinda. I presume that Schafskopf, Carl Baum, has poisoned your mind against me. The scum! I hate a backbiting dog. You surely cannot let any person like him form your opinion of a man like me."
"Certainly not, Paul. I am forming my own opinion of you right now—as you talk. Go find Erard. Do not delay," she said sternly, "or I shall be forced to appeal to your Herr Lieutenant."
"Tausend Teufel! and what if I told him you were a Melnotte instead of a Genau?" hissed the suddenly enraged sergeant-major, his choler rising.
Belinda was just now menaced by greater peril (or so she thought) than any with which this angry boy could threaten her. She retorted sharply:
"And so put yourself, too, under the lash? I have the writing in which you advised me to make the change in my name. Forget not that, mein Knabe."
He tramped away angrily enough, but Erard soon came limping up the yard to the door of Belinda's ward.
The nurse stood in the open doorway that she might be sure nobody within or without would overhear her first words to the Frenchman.
"Erard! Stoop down and fix your shoe. There is something the matter with it."
"Oui, oui, Mademoiselle! Ça y est! What is it?" and he stooped without a glance or start of surprise and fumbled with his shoestring.
"The aviator who was brought in this morning—who fell last night in the grove yonder. You know?"