“A brave lad as the cross shows,” said Carstairs, “and I should judge too from his appearance that he’s of high rank.  Maybe he’s a prince or the son of a prince.  You’ve already had adventures with two of them.”

“One of whom I liked.”

“He looks like a good fellow,” said Wharton.  “I’m glad you saved him.  Rub his hands while I give him a taste of this.”

John and Carstairs rubbed his palms until he opened his eyes, when Wharton put a flask to his lips and made him drink.  He groaned again and tried to sit up.

“Just you lie still, Herr Katzenellenbogen,” said Wharton.  “You’re in the hands of your friends, the enemy, but we’re saving your life or rather it’s been done already by the man on your left; name, John Scott; nationality, American; service, French.”

Captain Colton appeared and threw a white light with his own electric torch upon the little group.

“What have you there?” he asked.

“Young German who lay groaning too near the edge of our trench,” replied Carstairs.  “Scott couldn’t stand it, so he went out and brought him in.  Fancy his name is Katzenellenbogen, Kaiserslautern, Hohenfriedberg, or something else short and simple.”

Captain Colton permitted himself a grim smile.

“Your act of mercy, Scott, does honor to you,” he said, “though it’s no part of your business to get yourself killed helping a wounded enemy.  Bring him round, then send him to hospital in rear.”

He walked on, continuing his inspection of the Strangers although sure that no other attack would be made that night, and the three young men applied themselves with renewed energy to the revival of their injured captive.  Wharton cut the uniform away from his shoulder and, after announcing that the bullet had gone entirely through, bound up the two wounds with considerable skill.  Then he gave him another but small drink out of the flask and, as they saw the color come back into his face, they felt all the pleasure of a surgeon when he sees his efforts succeed.  The boy glanced at his shoulder, and then gave the three a grateful look.

“You’re all right,” said Carstairs cheerfully in English.  “You’re guest or prisoner, whichever you choose to call it and we three are your hosts or captors.  My name is Carstairs and these two assistants of mine are Wharton and Scott, distant cousins, that is to say, Yankees.  It was Scott who saved you.”

The boy smiled faintly.  He was in truth handsome with a delicate fairness one did not see often among the Germans, who were generally cast in a sterner mold.

“And I am Leopold Kratzek,” he replied in good English.

“Kratzek,” said John.  “Ah, you’re an Austrian.  Now I remember there’s an Austrian field-marshal of that name.”

“He is my father but he is in the East.  My regiment was sent with an Austrian corp to the western front.  It seems that I am in great luck.  My wound is not mortal, but I should certainly have frozen to death out there if one of you had not come for me.”