"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 as Mr. Merrick and the girl
assisted him to one of the swinging beds, and then Patsy, with white,
set face but steady hands, began at once to cut away the clothing and
get at the wound. This was her first practical experience and she meant
to prove her mettle or perish in the attempt.

Uncle John skipped over to the sand bank and clutched Gys savagely by
the collar.

"Get up!" he commanded. "Here's a man desperately wounded, who needs
your best skill--and at once."

Gys pulled himself free and sat up, seeming dazed for the moment. Then
he rubbed his head briskly with both hands, collected his nerve and
slowly rose to his feet. He cast fearful glances at the firing line, but
the demand for his surgical skill was a talisman that for a time enabled