Into the enclosure staggered the recreant Erard, a wine bottle in one hand and a dead pullet by the legs in the other. Ah, but he was the very picture of a devil-may-care fellow, roaring drunk!
Carl Baum made a rush for him, sputtering maledictions in German—threatening the little lame man with dire punishment.
"Hold!" commanded Erard pompously. "This," and he held up the scrawny pullet, "is for the Herr Lieutenant. Touch it at your peril!"
"Schweinhund!" thundered Carl.
"Who are you?" demanded Erard scornfully. "A soldier—therefore a slave. I am a free man. Vive la——" He tipped the bottle to his lips and swallowed some of the vin ordinaire. "Have a drink, brother?" he added, holding the bottle out to Carl with tipsy hospitality.
The corporal broke the bottle and seemed about to break the infirmier's head as well. Belinda ran out to save him. "You must not ill-treat the poor fellow, Carl," she declared.
"A wonderful tenderness you have for this drunken little beast," growled her cousin. "Come on! You go to the Herr Lieutenant," he added roughly to Erard.
"Oui, Monsieur! Here is the fine poulet for that same Herr Lieutenant." He bowed low before the troubled nurse. "But yes," he said boldly. "I am a man, me! I am no slave of a soldier. I have accomplished all that I set forth to do."
Belinda caught her breath. She knew the man was speaking directly to her—was reassuring her; although what he said seemed merely the vaporings of wine.
"Come!" cried Carl again.