It was an exciting trip, that race for life and death—­for every moment I knew my wounded boy was growing weaker, and every convulsive kick meant the disappearance of so much life blood.  During the numerous adventures which befell us between the time we left Jouy-le-Chatel and our encountering the motor, my hypodermic needle had received such violent treatment that it refused service.  So when we turned into Mormont at top speed, I was obliged to ask my driver to slow down and inquire for a doctor.  We were directed by a couple of gaping women on the borders of the little city, who didn’t quite understand our mission.  However, they must have been soon enlightened, for as we crossed the public square the British Red Cross ambulances were pouring in and lining up in battle array.  Behind them came a steady stream of ammunition wagons, both horse and motor trucks, and from Mormont to Melun the line was unbroken.

The doctor was absent, but his wife willingly filled his place and with new hope dawning we backed out of the yard and sped southward.

What was the landscape we passed through I really couldn’t say.  I had a dreamy sensation of having run down a refugee’s dog, and hearing its owner wishing us in warmer climes—­as well as the feeling that my blood-stained apron and the agitated white sheet beside me created much curiosity among the drivers and occupants of the A. S. C. motors that took up all one side of the road.

One by one the mile posts whizzed past and finally we came into Melun.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” I enquired of a group of soldiers loitering outside a barracks.

“Give it up!  All evacuated!”

Our driver needed no more—­and so we pushed on into the town, while I pantomimed to those behind that I had a wounded man in my arms.

In front of the city hall stood a noisy gathering, and in reply to our questions, a middle-aged man jumped on to the step.

“Go ahead—­I’ll guide you.  All the seven hospitals in Melun were transferred to Orleans this morning.  The mixed hospital is all that is left.”

After what seemed an interminable time we finally pulled up a long hill and after much parleying I succeeded in turning over my patient to the medical authorities.

Through the half open door of the little stuffy office where I was conducted I could see a white-aproned doctor and a nurse properly bandaging my boy.  When my compagnons de route had departed, I walked out into the ward and straight up to the bedside.

“Is there any hope?”

“Not one chance in a million!  Would to heaven we had the right to spare them such suffering!  Morphine is no longer helpful in his case!”

It was a shock to hear this.  The lad, who a couple of hours before was unknown to me, suddenly became very dear.  I turned about to hide my emotion, but was startled out of it by the double line of white beds on which were writhing men and boys in the most awful agony, yet not a sound broke from their lips.  In the middle of the room a second doctor, a slight man with a pointed beard, stood washing his hands and then began drawing on a pair of long rubber gloves.  He crossed over to a basin and, after sterilizing his instruments, looked around for an aid.