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as the sound of words in his own language
caught his ear. The Doctor sat quite still
with his hand on his forehead, slowly and
distinctly repeating the same words of
greeting from the land of his birth. The
intervals of listening silence grew longer
and longer. His wild eyes gradually became
steadier and his whole face twitched under a
tremendous effort to regain consciousness.
After a while he lay there quite still, looking
fixedly at the stranger at his side.
“Where am I?” he murmured at last.
“With friends,” answered the Doctor,
fearless of his lie.
“Fritz?” said the Saxon hesitatingly.
“You are wounded, but you are with
friends and you will soon get well and return
home if you lie quite still and try to sleep.”
“Yes,” said he, and closed his eyes.
“Is he asleep?” said Josephine softly
after awhile.
“No,” said the Doctor, lifting his hand
from the Saxon’s forehead. “He is dead.”
* *
“I am afraid he is very bad,” said
Josephine. “Monsieur le Maire says he is quite
unconscious, he is bleeding internally and
he has both his hands shot away by a shell.
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