“I remember, now.  I had turned to reload and it hit me in the back.  A bullet, mademoiselle?”

“Part of a shell.”

“Ah, I understand....  I tried to get to the rear.  The pain was terrible.  No one seemed to notice me.  At last I fell, and—­then I slept.  I thought it was the end.”

She bathed his forehead, saying: 

“You must not talk any more at present.  Here comes the doctor to see you.”

Gys, busy in the cabin, had heard their voices and now came to look at his most interesting patient.  The soldier seemed about twenty years of age; he was rather handsome, with expressive eyes and features bearing the stamp of culture.  Already they knew his name, by means of an identification card found upon him, as well as a small packet of letters carefully pinned in an inner pocket of his coat.  These last were all addressed in the same handwriting, which was undoubtedly feminine, to Andrew Denton.  The card stated that Andrew Denton, private, was formerly an insurance agent at Antwerp.

Doctor Gys had rather impatiently awaited the young man’s return to consciousness that he might complete his examination.  He now devoted the next half hour to a careful diagnosis of Denton’s injuries.  By this time the patient was suffering intense pain and a hypodermic injection of morphine was required to relieve him.  When at last he was quietly drowsing the doctor called Maud aside to give her instructions.

“Watch him carefully,” said he, “and don’t let him suffer.  Keep up the morphine.”

“There is no hope, then?” she asked.

“Not the slightest.  He may linger for days—­even weeks, if we sustain his strength—­but recovery is impossible.  That bit of shell tore a horrible hole in the poor fellow and all we can do is keep him comfortable until the end.  Without the morphine he would not live twelve hours.”

“Shall I let him talk?”

“If he wishes to.  His lungs are not involved, so it can do him no harm.”

But Andrew Denton did not care to talk any more that day.  He wanted to think, and lay quietly until Beth came on duty.  To her he gave a smile and a word of thanks and again lapsed into thoughtful silence.

When Ajo brought the new consignment of wounded to the ship the doctors and nurses found themselves pretty busy for a time.  With wounds to dress and one or two slight operations to perform, the afternoon passed swiftly away.  The old patients must not be neglected, either, so Captain Carg said he would sit with the German and look after him, as he was able to converse with the patient in his own tongue.

The German was resting easily to-day but proved as glum and uncommunicative as ever.  That did not worry the captain, who gave the man a cigarette and, when it was nonchalantly accepted, lighted his own pipe.  Together they sat in silence and smoked, the German occupying an easy chair and resting his leg upon a stool, for he had refused to lie in a berth.  Through the open window the dull boom of artillery could constantly be heard.  After an hour or so: