"You have one thing to remember, ladies," said the surgeon. "Beware
of opening the shutter, for fear of the light being seen through the
window. For the rest, we are free to make ourselves as comfortable here
as we can. Compose yourself, dear madam, and rely on the protection of a
Frenchman who is devoted to you!" He gallantly emphasized his last words
by raising the hand of the English lady to his lips. At the moment when
he kissed it the canvas screen was again drawn aside. A person in
the service of the ambulance appeared, announcing that a bandage had
slipped, and that one of the wounded men was to all appearance bleeding
to death. The surgeon, submitting to destiny with the worst possible
grace, dropped the charming Englishwoman's hand, and returned to his
duties in the kitchen. The two ladies were left together in the room.
"Will you take a chair, madam?" asked the nurse.
"Don't call me 'madam,'" returned the young lady, cordially. "My name is
Grace Roseberry. What is your name?"
The nurse hesitated. "Not a pretty name, like yours," she said, and
hesitated again. "Call me 'Mercy Merrick,'" she added, after a moment's
consideration.
Had she given an assumed name? Was there some unhappy celebrity attached
to her own name? Miss Roseberry did not wait to ask herself these
questions. "How can I thank you," she exclaimed, gratefully, "for your
sisterly kindness to a stranger like me?"
"I have only done my duty," said Mercy Merrick, a little coldly. "Don't
speak of it."
"I must speak of it. What a situation you found me in when the French
soldiers had driven the Germans away! My traveling-carriage stopped; the
horses seized; I myself in a strange country at nightfall, robbed of my
money and my luggage, and drenched to the skin by the pouring rain! I am
indebted to you for shelter in this place--I am wearing your clothes--I
should have died of the fright and the exposure but for you. What return
can I make for such services as these?"
Mercy placed a chair for her guest near the captain's table, and seated
herself, at some little distance, on an old chest in a corner of the
room. "May I ask you a question?" she said, abruptly.
"A hundred questions," cried Grace, "if you like." She looked at the
expiring fire, and at the dimly visible figure of her companion seated
in the obscurest corner of the room. "That wretched candle hardly gives
any light," she said, impatiently. "It won't last much longer. Can't
we make the place more cheerful? Come out of your corner. Call for more
wood and more lights."
Mercy remained in her corner and shook her head. "Candles and wood are
scarce things here," she answered. "We must be patient, even if we
are left in the dark. Tell me," she went on, raising her quiet voice a
little, "how came you to risk crossing the frontier in wartime?"