"Some surprised!" The girl was smiling hopefully. "That sounds like good old United States talk."
"We heard so much noise overhead, then some nasty bombs exploding. So Brenda and I have lain hidden in the cellars for — for hours. Haven't we, Brenda? The dim form in the rear nodded emphatically. "But who are you?"
Here she caught sight of the ruined planes and the prostrate forms of
Blaine and Erwin, with also the more distant figure of the dead German.
"Oh — oh!" She clasped her hands. "How dreadful! What can we do?
May we not help? Are they all dead?"
The girl was genuinely aroused, so much so that her natural horror of the strained situation was lost in genuine concern. Stanley briefly explained the series of incidents that had preceded the present situation, at the same time pointing at the dead German aviator, and concluding with:
"The poor chap used to live in Chicago. Before he died he gave us his parents' address there. He spoke good English."
"Why, Chicago is where I hail from," said the girl. "Good old Windy City! I wish I was there now, although I have been over here many months."
Meantime Brenda, with the ready adaptability of Belgian women, had been examining the persons of the two still insensible aviators. All at once she rose up, saying to her mistress:
"Pardon, miss." This in her own Flemish tongue. "We must move these Americans to our under ground rooms. They will recover, but they need attention."
"You are sure right, Miss - Miss —" Stanley hesitated, but the girl paid no heed. "We don't want to inconvenience you, but something will have to be done right away."