“Quite certain. Mademoiselle was present.”
“Then please make a note of that also, Captain Dulac,” the commander said. “Only yesterday I received word from headquarters that he was to be captured, and wherever found, sent for trial by court-martial at Antwerp. So you, Valentin, it seems, have put a sudden end to this man’s dastardly career—eh?” and the well-set-up, grey-moustached man—one of Belgium’s bravest generals—grinned with satisfaction. “Well, I congratulate you, and you may rest assured that your distinguished services will not go unrewarded. Bon soir, Mademoiselle—Bon soir, Valentin.”
And the pair were then led forth from the tent, away to that of the medical service, where a doctor quickly investigated Edmond’s wound.
Aimée, fortunately perhaps, remained outside, for scarcely had her lover entered the tent, than he fell fainting. Restoratives were quickly administered, and the bullet was extracted under an anaesthetic, while she waited in patience outside. Edmond’s wound was, alas! of a far more serious character than the gallant soldier of Belgium had at first believed. In consequence of medical advice he was sent, next day, by train to the military hospital in Antwerp, Aimée, by order of the general, being allowed to accompany him in the military train.
From Antwerp Aimée was able to communicate with both her mother and father, and a fortnight after her arrival there she received, with intense satisfaction, the joyful news that they had both met at Ostend, and had gone to London, Brussels being, of course, in the hands of the enemy.
The Baroness wrote several times, urging her daughter to come to London—to the Langham Hotel, where they had taken up their temporary quarters—but the girl replied that she would not leave Edmond’s side, she having volunteered as a Red Cross nurse at the St. Elizabeth Hospital.
For over a month Edmond Valentin, eager to return to the front and to still bear his part in the fighting, lay in his narrow bed in the long ward now filled to overflowing with wounded. His shoulder had been shattered, and more than one medical consultation had been held regarding it.
Aimée, in her neat uniform as nurse, with the big scarlet cross upon the breast of her white apron, had learned the sad truth—that, in all probability, Edmond might never be able to use his right arm again, though no one had told him the painful fact.
As he lay there he was ever dreaming of going back to again work that innocent-looking little machine-gun of his, which had sent to their deaths so many of the Huns of the Kaiser.
The bitter truth was, however, told to him one day. The enemy, under General von Bäseler, were advancing upon Antwerp. They had destroyed Malines, and were almost at the gates of Belgium’s principal port. It was the third day in October, and British troops had now arrived to assist in the defence of Antwerp. All the wounded who could walk were ordered to leave.