“Not if I can help it.  The fellow bears pain with wonderful fortitude.  When I was in Yucatan, and had to slash my face to get out the poisoned darts of the cactus, I screamed till you could have heard me a mile.  And I had no anaesthetic to soothe me.  Your lieutenant never whimpered or cringed with his mangled foot and he refused morphine when I operated on it.  But I fooled him.  I hate to see a brave man suffer.  I stuck a needle just above the wound when he wasn’t looking, and I’ve doped his medicine ever since.”

“Thank you,” said Carg; “he’s my cousin.”

In the small hours of the next morning, while Patsy was on duty in the hospital section, the young Belgian became wakeful and restless.  She promptly administered a sedative and sat by his bedside.  After a little his pain was eased and he became quiet, but he lay there with wide open eyes.

“Can I do anything more for you?” she asked.

“If you would be so kind,” replied Andrew Denton.

“Well?”

“Please read to me some letters you will find in my pocket.  I cannot read them myself, and—­they will comfort me.”

Patsy found the packet of letters.

“The top one first,” he said eagerly.  “Read them all!”

She opened the letter reluctantly.  It was addressed in a dainty, female hand and the girl had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to pry into personal relations of a delicate character.

“Your sweetheart?” she asked gently.

“Yes, indeed; my sweetheart and my wife.”

“Oh, I see.  And have you been married long?” He seemed a mere boy.

“Five months, but for the last two I have not seen her.”

The letters were dated at Charleroi and each one began:  “My darling husband.”  Patsy read the packet through, from first to last, her eyes filling with tears at times as she noted the rare devotion and passionate longing of the poor young wife and realized that the boyish husband was even now dying, a martyr to his country’s cause.  The letters were signed “Elizabeth.”  In one was a small photograph of a sweet, dark-eyed girl whom she instantly knew to be the bereaved wife.

“And does she still live at Charleroi?” Patsy asked.

“I hope so, mademoiselle; with her mother.  The Germans now occupy the town, but you will notice the last letter states that all citizens are treated courteously and with much consideration, so I do not fear for her.”

The reading of the letters, in conjunction with the opiate, seemed to comfort him, for presently he fell asleep.  With a heavy heart the girl left him to attend to her other patients and at three o’clock Ajo came in and joined her, to relieve the tedium of the next three hours.  The boy knew nothing of nursing, but he could help Patsy administer potions and change compresses and his presence was a distinct relief to her.

The girl was supposed to sleep from six o’clock—­at which time she was relieved from duty—­until one in the afternoon, but the next morning at eight she walked into the forward salon, where her friends were at breakfast, and sat down beside Uncle John.