“The strongest among them we can take away with us,” he said. “The others must be left here. Fear nothing for yourself, dear lady. There will be a place for you in the baggage-wagon.”
“And for me, too?” Grace pleaded, eagerly.
The surgeon’s invincible arm stole round the young lady’s waist, and answered mutely with a squeeze.
“Take her with you,” said Mercy. “My place is with the men whom you leave behind.”
Grace listened in amazement. “Think what you risk,” she said “if you stop here.”
Mercy pointed to her left shoulder.
“Don’t alarm yourself on my account,” she answered; “the red cross will protect me.”
Another roll of the drum warned the susceptible surgeon to take his place as director-general of the ambulance without any further delay. He conducted Grace to a chair, and placed both her hands on his heart this time, to reconcile her to the misfortune of his absence. “Wait here till I return for you,” he whispered. “Fear nothing, my charming friend. Say to yourself, ‘Surville is the soul of honor! Surville is devoted to me!’” He struck his breast; he again forgot the obscurity in the room, and cast one look of unutterable homage at his charming friend. “A bientot!” he cried, and kissed his hand and disappeared.
As the canvas screen fell over him the sharp report of the rifle-firing was suddenly and grandly dominated by the roar of cannon. The instant after a shell exploded in the garden outside, within a few yards of the window.
Grace sank on her knees with a shriek of terror. Mercy, without losing her self-possession, advanced to the window and looked out.