get through a hateful job; but for
him--like most men of his race--beauty held a strong appeal. Suddenly he
wished to save the boy with the fair curly hair and arched dark brows.
Here was a German--a Bavarian--who could have no vileness in him yet!

The surgeon got ready his instruments for the operation, which must be
done quickly, if at all. The boy was unconscious, but every moment or
two he broke out in convulsive delirium, giving answers to questions
like a man talking in sleep. "Hilda! Hilda!" he cried again and again.
"My Hilda, do not ask me that. Thou wouldst not love me if I told thee!
Thou wouldst hate me forever!"

"What have you done that Hilda should hate you?" Paul enquired, as he
waited for the anaesthetic. Ether was running short. The wounded had to
take their turn that day.

"Luneville! Luneville!" shrieked the Bavarian.

Everyone heard the cry. The two young doctors, knowing Herter's history,
turned sick. This was worse than their worst fears! But they could do
nothing. To speak, to try to act, would be to insult the surgeon. They
saw that he was ghastly pale. "What happened at Luneville?" he went on.

"Here is the ether," a voice spoke in haste. But Paul heard only the
Bavarian.

"Oh, God, the old woman! Her face at the window. I can't forget.
Hilda--she wouldn't come out. It wasn't my fault. The Colonel's orders.
An old man, too. We saw them in the fire. We had to pass on. Hilda,
forgive!"

"Was it a corner house of the Rue Princesse Marie?" asked Herter.

"Yes--yes, a corner house," groaned the boy of the beautiful face.

Herter gave a sign to the man who had brought the ether. A moment more,
and the ravings of the Bavarian were silenced. The operation began.

The others had their hands full of their own work, yet with a kind of
agonized clairvoyance they were conscious of all that Herter did. The
same thought was in the minds of both young doctors. They exchanged
impressions afterward. "He'll cut the boy's heart out and tread it
underfoot!"

But never had the Jewish surgeon from Metz performed a major operation
with more coolness or more perfect skill. Had he chosen to let his wrist
tremble at the critical second, revenge would easily have been his. But
awaiting the instant between one beat of the heart and another, he
seized the shred of shrapnel lodged there, and closed up the throbbing
breast. The boy would live. He had not only spared, but saved, the life
of one who was perhaps h