The German Surgeon

"Can I be of any use there?"

His manner was ironically courteous, his harsh voice was pitched in one
sardonic monotony of tone. Mercy took an instantaneous dislike to
this hobbling, ugly old man, staring at her rudely through his great
tortoiseshell spectacles.

"You can be of no use, sir," she said, shortly. "The lady was killed
when your troops shelled this cottage."

The Englishman started, and looked compassionately toward the bed.
The German refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff, and put another
question.

"Has the body been examined by a medical man?" he asked.

Mercy ungraciously limited her reply to the one necessary word "Yes."

The present surgeon was not a man to be daunted by a lady's disapproval
of him. He went on with his questions.

"Who has examined the body?" he inquired next.

Mercy answered, "The doctor attached to the French ambulance."

The German grunted in contemptuous disapproval of all Frenchmen, and
all French institutions. The Englishman seized his first opportunity of
addressing himself to Mercy once more.

"Is the lady a countrywoman of ours?" he asked, gently.

Mercy considered before she answered him. With the object she had in
view, there might be serious reasons for speaking with extreme caution
when she spoke of Grace.

"I believe so," she said. "We met here by accident. I know nothing of
her."

"Not even her name?" inquired the German surgeon.

Mercy's resolution was hardly equal yet to giving her own name openly as
the name of Grace. She took refuge in flat denial.