He had steeled himself to get through a hateful job; but for
him--like most men of his race--beauty held a strong appeal. Suddenly he
wished to save the boy with the fair curly hair and arched dark brows.
Here was a German--a Bavarian--who could have no vileness in him yet!
The surgeon got ready his instruments for the operation, which must be
done quickly, if at all. The boy was unconscious, but every moment or
two he broke out in convulsive delirium, giving answers to questions
like a man talking in sleep. "Hilda! Hilda!" he cried again and again.
"My Hilda, do not ask me that. Thou wouldst not love me if I told thee!
Thou wouldst hate me forever!"
"What have you done that Hilda should hate you?" Paul enquired, as he
waited for the anaesthetic. Ether was running short. The wounded had to
take their turn that day.
"Luneville! Luneville!" shrieked the Bavarian.
Everyone heard the cry. The two young doctors, knowing Herter's history,
turned sick. This was worse than their worst fears! But they could do
nothing. To speak, to try to act, would be to insult the surgeon. They
saw that he was ghastly pale. "What happened at Luneville?" he went on.
"Here is the ether," a voice spoke in haste. But Paul heard only the
Bavarian.
"Oh, God, the old woman! Her face at the window. I can't forget.
Hilda--she wouldn't come out. It wasn't my fault. The Colonel's orders.
An old man, too. We saw them in the fire. We had to pass on.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136