The man brightened visibly at this turn in the conversation.

“Not to-day, sir; not for days to come,” he replied.  “The French cannot afford to lose Dunkirk, and by to-morrow they will pour an irresistible horde against the German invader.  If we stay here, we are sure to remain in the rear of the firing line.”

CHAPTER X

THE WAR’S VICTIMS

While the others were conversing on deck Maud Stanton was ministering to the maimed victims of the war’s cruelty, who tossed and moaned below.  The main cabin and its accompanying staterooms had been fitted with all the conveniences of a modern hospital.  Twenty-two could easily be accommodated in the rooms and a dozen more in the cabin, so that the eleven now in their charge were easily cared for.  Of these, only three had been seriously injured.  One was the German, who, however, was now sleeping soundly under the influence of the soothing potion that followed his operation.  The man’s calmness and iron nerve indicated that he would make a rapid recovery.  Another was the young Belgian soldier picked up in the roadway near the firing line, who had been shot in the back and had not yet recovered consciousness.  Dr. Gys had removed several bits of exploded shell and dressed the wound, shaking his head discouragingly.  But since the young man was still breathing, with a fairly regular respiration, no attempt was made to restore him to his senses.

The third seriously injured was a French sergeant whose body was literally riddled with shrapnel.  A brief examination had convinced Gys that the case was hopeless.

“He may live until morning,” was the doctor’s report as he calmly looked down upon the moaning sergeant, “but no longer.  Meanwhile, we must prevent his suffering.”

This he accomplished by means of powerful drugs.  The soldier soon lay in a stupor, awaiting the end, and nothing more could be done for him.

Of the others, two Belgians with bandaged heads were playing a quiet game of ecarte in a corner of the cabin, while another with a slight wound in his leg was stretched upon a couch, reading a book.  A young French officer who had lost three fingers of his hand was cheerfully conversing with a comrade whose scalp had been torn by a bullet and who declared that in two days he would return to the front.  The others Maud found asleep in their berths or lying quietly to ease their pain.  It was remarkable, however, how little suffering was caused these men by flesh wounds, once they were properly dressed and the patients made comfortable with food and warmth and the assurance of proper care.

So it was that Maud found her duties not at all arduous this evening.  Indeed, the sympathy she felt for these brave men was so strong that it wearied her more than the actual work of nursing them.  A sip of water here, a cold compress there, the administration of medicines to keep down or prevent fever, little attentions of this character were all that were required.  Speaking French fluently, she was able to converse with all those under her charge and all seemed eager to relate to their beautiful nurse their experiences, hopes and griefs.  Soon she realized she was beginning to learn more of the true nature of war than she had ever gleaned from the correspondents of the newspapers.