The New Magdalen

Was she wounded? or dead?

Mercy raised one helpless hand, and laid her fingers on the wrist.

While she was still vainly trying to feel for the beating of the pulse,

Surgeon Surville (alarmed for the ladies) hurried in to inquire if any

harm had been done.

Mercy called to him to approach. "I am afraid the shell has struck her,"

she said, yielding her place to him. "See if she is badly hurt."

The surgeon's anxiety for his charming patient expressed itself briefly

in an oath, with a prodigious emphasis laid on one of the letters in

it--the letter R. "Take off her cloak," he cried, raising his hand to

her neck. "Poor angel! She has turned in falling; the string is twisted

round her throat."

Mercy removed the cloak. It dropped on the floor as the surgeon lifted

Grace in his arms. "Get a candle," he said, impatiently; "they will give

you one in the kitchen." He tried to feel the pulse: his hand trembled,

the noise and confusion in the kitchen bewildered him. "Just Heaven!"

he exclaimed. "My emotions overpower me!" Mercy approached him with the

candle. The light disclosed the frightful injury which a fragment of

the shell had inflicted on the Englishwoman's head. Surgeon Surville's

manner altered on the instant. The expression of anxiety left his face;

its professional composure covered it suddenly like a mask. What was the

object of his admiration now? An inert burden in his arms--nothing more.

The change in his face was not lost on Mercy. Her large gray eyes

watched him attentively. "Is the lady seriously wounded?" she asked.

"Don't trouble yourself to hold the light any longer," was the cool

reply. "It's all over--I can do nothing for her."

"Dead?"

Surgeon Surville nodded and shook his fist in the direction of the

outposts. "Accursed Germans!" he cried, and looked down at the dead face

on his arm, and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "The fortune of war!"

he said as he lifted the body and placed it on the bed in one corner of

the room. "Next time, nurse, it may be you or me. Who knows? Bah! the

problem of human destiny disgusts me." He turned from the bed, and

illustrated his disgust by spitting on the fragments of the exploded

shell. "We must leave her there," he resumed. "She was once a charming

person--she is nothing now. Come away, Miss Mercy, before it is too

late."

He offered his arm to the nurse; the creaking of the baggage-wagon,

starting on its journey, was heard outside, and the shrill roll of the

drums was renewed in the distance. The retreat had begun.

Mercy drew aside the canvas, and saw the badly wounded men, left

helpless at the mercy of the enemy, on their straw beds. She refused the

offer of Monsieur Surville's arm.