blazed and crackled, sending a red flame into the sky.
“Has any one seen the signals yet?” he asked again.
“We are waiting,” was the reply.
“Yes, waiting,” murmured a man behind him, “waiting, sick, starved, freezing, but waiting. Is it a sortie? They go gladly. Is it to starve? They starve. They have no time to think of surrender. Are they heroes,—these Parisians? answer me, Trent!”
The American Ambulance surgeon turned about and scanned the parapets of the bridge.
“Any news, Doctor,” asked Trent mechanically.
“News?” said the doctor; “I don’t know any;—I haven’t time to know any. What are these people after?”
“They say that the Army of the Loire has signalled Mont Valérien.”
“Poor devils.” The doctor glanced about him for an instant, and then: “I’m so harried and worried that I don’t know what to do. After the last sortie we had the work of fifty ambulances on our poor little corps. To-morrow there’s another sortie and I wish you fellows could come over to headquarters. We may need volunteers. How is madame?” he added abruptly.
“Well,” replied Trent, “but she seems to grow more nervous every day. I ought to be with her now.”
“Take care of her,” said the doctor, then with a sharp look at the people: “I can’t stop now—good-night!” and he hurried away muttering, “poor devils!”
Trent leaned over the parapet and blinked at the black river surging through the arches.
