Then he heard the girl's clear voice speaking in rapid French, and men's voices answering eagerly. The mist cleared a little from before his eyes, and he found that the arm about his shoulders belonged to a stocky Belgian soldier who was leading him past one end of the barricade, close behind another who bore the girl in his arms. At the other side an officer stopped them. "Who are you?" he asked in French. "From where do you come?" "We are friends," said the girl. "We have fled from Germany. We have both been wounded." "Yes," said Stewart, and showed his blood-stained shirt. "Mine is only a scratch, but my comrade needs attention." A sudden shout from the top of the barricade told that the Uhlans were re-forming. "You must look out for yourselves," said the officer. "I will hear your story later," and he bounded back to his place beside his men. The soldier who was carrying the girl dropped her abruptly into Stewart's arms and followed his captain. In an instant the firing recommenced. Stewart looked wildly about him. He was in a village street, with close-built houses on either side. "I must find a wagon," he gasped, "or something----" His breath failed him, but he staggered on. The mist was before his eyes again, his tongue seemed dry and swollen. Suddenly the arm about his neck relaxed, the head fell back---- He cast one haggard glance down into the white face, then turned through the nearest doorway. Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought--perhaps she had not told him. He must see--he must make sure---- He found himself in a tiled passage, opening into a low-ceilinged room lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, he stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and upon this he gently laid his burden. Before he could catch himself, he had fallen heavily to the floor, and lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness passed. With set teeth, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found, with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound in the leg, and quickly ripped away the cloth. The bullet had passed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a tiny puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound was not dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it--it must be washed and dressed. He found a pail of water in the kitchen, snatched a sheet from a bed in another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him, the mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of exhaustion passed. "It is only a scratch!" whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to find her smiling up at him. "It is just a scratch like yours!" "It is much more than a scratch!" he said, sternly. "You must lie still, or you will start the bleeding." "Tyrant!" she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see what he was doing. "Oh! is it there?" she said, in surprise. "I didn't feel it there!"