'Poor fellow! he is down in his luck, certainly,' thought Fotheringhame; ''gad, I shall rejoice to hear when the doctors think him safe round the corner, and we may start for home.' When sense came completely back to Cecil, he knew not where he was, nor for some hours thereafter did he exactly comprehend all that had lately happened to him and passed around him; he had lost so much blood, and been thereby so giddy, weak, drowsy, and insensible. His first recollections were of the battle--of supporting the field-battery, and the charges he had led ere he fell; then the night in the woody hollow--his thirst and the kites hovering over him! Now he was in a handsome, lofty, and airy room, and on a pretty French couch; a soft flower-scented breeze came through an open window, the hangings of which were partly drawn; and he had also a sense of a woman flitting noiselessly about him, and by her plain black dress and the white band with the red cross on the left arm, her crimped cap and spotless white apron, he recognised in her one of the German nurses or Sisters of Charity, who, the moment she caught his eye and saw him move, gave him a cooling and refreshing drink, glad to find symptoms of recovery in a poor sufferer whose mutterings alone had given her a clue to his wants, while she had felt her heart touched by the utterance of the ever-recurring name of 'Mary'; but her work was nearly done now, as she had nursed him back to health and something like strength. 'Where am I?' he asked, with a husky voice. 'In Belgrade, _mein Herr_.' 'Belgrade! with whom?' 'Friends; kind friends, who will take care of you now that the horrible war is all over.' In a well-hung carriage procured by Fotheringhame from General Tchernaieff, Cecil, all unknown to himself, had been conveyed more than a hundred miles from the field of battle and from the crowded and pestilential hospitals thereby, and was now comfortably quartered in the Krone or La Couronne Hotel at Belgrade. Cecil was greatly bewildered by hearing that he was in the capital of Servia, and was disposed to ask more questions; but his nurse told him that he must be patient, adding, while the tender light of a sweet and womanly soul lit up her eyes: 'And you must not talk, it is bad for your chest, Herr Captain; drink more of this--you cannot! Then I must feed you with a spoon.' 'You?' 'Yes,' and tenderly the blooming little fräulein raised his head on her soft arm, and made him partake of the medicated food the doctor had ordered. 'Now go to sleep,' said she; 'sleep and feed--feed and sleep, you naughty boy, and we soon shall have you in your saddle once more.' He dozed off again, but tossed restlessly on his pillow, as dreams came to him now more distinctly than before.