Fortunately everything in Belinda's ward was in order. The Herr Doktor, in helmet, boots and cloak, and with his shining ebony cane, strode down the ward in his usual masterful manner. He asked a question here and there, but at the empty cot numbered seventeen he did not halt. That case had gone back to the operating table and was recorded in the annals of the hospital as one of the most successful operations of the Herr Doktor Herschall. But the patient had died.
Forewarned, Frank Sanderson was his usual calm self when the surgeon approached. But the aviator had his part to play. He sat up in bed and punctiliously saluted with his left hand when the inspecting surgeon drew near.
"Good day to you, Herr Lieutenant Gessler," said the surgeon sonorously. "I have a good report of you."
"Thank you for your interest, Herr Doktor," Sanderson responded. "Yet I shall not partake long of your hospitality here, I hope."
"No? That is a good word. Hum! I shall hope to see you——Was zum Teufel?" He turned swiftly, roaring his annoyance. Ernest had tugged at his cloak. "What do you mean, you young dog? Can you not wait your turn?"
"They send me to the convalescent camp, Herr Doktor," the boy cried. "Then it will be back to the trenches soon—I know. I cannot stand it. I will not——"
"Be still!" commanded Doctor Herschall with a sudden calmness that should have warned even Ernest of his danger. "Can you not see I am speaking with the Herr Lieutenant Gessler?"
"He? He?" repeated Ernest in his shrill voice. "He is no more the flying-man than I am."
Belinda turned toward Sanderson, a look of terror in her eyes.
The Herr Doktor's heavy cane delivered two cruel strokes across the boy's shoulders. Ernest shrieked, rolling on the floor. Belinda's intake of angry breath at this brutality was unnoticed by the enraged Herr Doktor as he wheeled and marched back up the ward.