tretcher a more seriously injured man. Most of this
corps were French; a few were English; some were Belgian. Our friends
were the only Americans on the field.

Uncle John's face was very grave as he alighted in the wake of his
girls, who paid no attention to the fighting but at once ran to assist
some of the wounded who came staggering toward the ambulance, some even
creeping painfully on hands and knees. In all Mr. Merrick's conceptions
of the important mission they had undertaken, nothing like the nature
of this desperate conflict had even dawned upon him. He had known that
the Red Cross was respected by all belligerents, and that knowledge had
led him to feel that his girls would be fairly safe; but never had he
counted on spent bullets, stray shells or the mad rush of a charge.

"Very good!" cried Maurie briskly. "Here we see what no one else can
see. The Red Cross is a fine passport to the grand stand of war."

"Come with me--quick!" shouted Ajo, his voice sounding shrill through
the din. "I saw a fellow knocked out--there--over yonder!"

As he spoke he grabbed a stretcher and ran forward, Maurie following at
his heels. Uncle John saw the smoke swallow them up, saw Beth and Maud
each busy with lint, plasters and bandages, saw Patsy supporting a tall,
grizzled warrior who came limping toward the car. Then he turned and saw
Doctor Gys, crouching low against the protecting sand, his disfigured
face working convulsively and every limb trembling as with an ague.

CHAPTER VIII

THE COWARD

"Great heavens!" gasped Mr. Merrick, running toward the doctor. "Are you
hit?"

Gys looked up at him appealingly and nodded.

"Where did it strike you? Was it a bullet--or what?"

The doctor wrung his hands, moaning pitifully. Uncle John bent over him.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me, Gys!"

"I--I'm scared, sir--s-s-scared stiff. It's that yellow s-s-s-streak in
me; I--I--can't help it, sir." Then he collapsed, crouching lifelessly
close to the sand.

Uncle John was amazed. He drew back with such an expression of scorn
that Gys, lying with face upward, rolled over to hide his own features
in the sand. But his form continued to twist and shake convulsively.

Patsy came up with her soldier, whose gaudy uniform proclaimed him an
officer. He had a rugged, worn face, gray hair and mustache, stern eyes.
His left side was torn and bleeding where a piece of shell had raked him
from shoulder to knee. No moan did he utter