An hour later Bansemer, his rifle in hand, sitting near one of the
windows, suddenly felt someone tugging at his arm. Turning, he saw
the Spanish boy.

"Won't you come and help me to carry my brother behind the stone
altar wall?" he was saying. "He is exposed to the bullets and cannot
move himself."

"Willingly!" and Graydon followed his lead. As if he was a child,
he picked up the gaunt Spaniard and carefully bore him to the place
of shelter. But despite all that he could do to hide his suffering,
the pain in his arm, which the removal of the man had increased,
was such, for a moment, that he felt faint and staggered. The boy
was quick to notice it, and quickly asked:

"What is the matter? Wounded?"

"It's nothing--merely a scratch."

"Oh, I know--why, it's your arm--and I---" The boy's face crimsoned
with shame and contrition. Through the semi-darkness the blush
escaped Graydon's notice, but not so the truly feminine, little
shriek of dismay, as he touched and felt the wet sleeve.

"It was I who did it! Oh, how can you ever forgive me?"

Graydon, dumbfounded, stared in wonder.

"What?" he exclaimed; "you're a girl?"