What a different aspect the main square presented to that of an hour before!  Motors were lined up four deep on all sides, and I was obliged to elbow my way through the crowds of gapers, refugees, and officers that thronged the street.

“Have you come for the wounded?” questioned a white-capped sister as I closed the convent door and strode up the steps.

“Yes, sister.”

“Heaven be praised!  Come this way, quickly.  Your nurse is here, but cannot suffice alone.  We’re of no use—­there are only five of us to look after the almshouse, and a hundred refugees.  We know nothing of surgery or bandaging.”

All this was said sweetly and quietly as we hurried down a long corridor.  In the middle of a big, well-lighted room stood Madame Guix bandaging the arm of a fine looking fellow, who shut his eyes and grated his teeth as she worked.  On a half-dozen chairs sat as many men, some holding their heads in their hands, some doubled in two, others clenching their fists in agony.  Not a murmur escaped them.  The floor in several places was stained with great red patches.

“Quick, Madame Huard.  We must stop the hemorrhages at all costs.  The wounds are not bad, since the men have come on foot, but one never can tell with this heat.”

A sister tied a white apron around me and in a second I had washed my hands and begun.  The first shirt I split, my heart leapt to my lips.  I was neither a novice nor a coward, but the sight of human blood flowing so generously and given so ungrudgingly, gave me a queer feeling in my throat.  A second later that had all passed over and as I worked I questioned the young fellows as to home and family and finally at what place they had been wounded.  Some did not know, others named unfamiliar corners, but La Tretoire startled me.  Our morning halt!  Then the invaders had crossed the Marne?  For these were not wounds from exploding shell but Mauser bullets and pistol shots!

Meanwhile the sisters brought iron beds and soft mattresses into the next room, and each boy in turn was put to rest.  Fortunately there was nothing very serious, for we had no doctor and knew not where to find one.  When we reached our last patient he was so limp that we feared he would faint.  Imagine, if you can, what it is to cut away a stout pair of trooper’s boots, and undress an almost helpless man whose clothes are fairly glued to the skin with blood, dirt and perspiration.

“Hold the ammonia closer to his nose,” said Madame Guix, tugging at a wire that served as boot lace.

“I’m afraid he’s exhausted.  There he goes—­” I had just time to catch the body as it slid from the chair.

Madame Guix grasped his wrist.

“His pulse is good.  Hold fast till I get my needle.”

The boy’s lips parted and a familiar sound filled the room.

“He’s not fainted!” I gasped.  “He’s asleep!  Snoring!”