hat added a little
more blood to the blood already choking him. Then the _Medecin Major_
did a very skilful operation. He trephined the skull, extracted the
bullet that had lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic
eye. After which the man was sent over to the ward, while the surgeon
returned hungrily to his dinner, long overdue.

In the ward, the man was a bad patient. He insisted upon tearing off his
bandages, although they told him that this meant bleeding to death. His
mind seemed fixed on death. He seemed to want to die, and was thoroughly
unreasonable, although quite conscious. All of which meant that he
required constant watching and was a perfect nuisance. He was so
different from the other patients, who wanted to live. It was a joy to
nurse them. This was the _Salle_ of the _Grands Blesses_, those most
seriously wounded. By expert surgery, by expert nursing, some of these
were to be returned to their homes again, _reformes_, mutilated for
life, a burden to themselves and to society; others were to be nursed
back to health, to a point at which they could again shoulder eighty
pounds of marching kit, and be torn to pieces again on the firing line.
It was a pleasure to nurse such as these. It called forth all one's
skill, all one's humanity. But to nurse back to health a man who was to
be court-martialled and shot, truly that seemed a dead-end occupation.

They dressed his wounds every day. Very many yards of gauze were
required, with gauze at so many francs a bolt. Very much ether, very
much iodoform, very many bandages--it was an expensive business,
considering. All this waste for a man who was to be shot, as soon as he
was well enough. How much better to expend this upon the hopeless
cripples, or those who were to face death again in the trenches.

The night nurse was given to reflection. One night, about midnight, she
took her candle and went down the ward, reflecting. Ten beds on the
right hand side, ten beds on the left hand side, all full. How pitiful
they were, these little soldiers, asleep. How irritating they were,
these little soldiers, awake. Yet how sternly they contrasted with the
man who had attempted suicide. Yet did they contrast, after all? Were
they finer, nobler, than he? The night nurse, given to reflection,
continued her rounds.

In bed number two, on the right, lay Alexandre, asleep. He had received
the _Medaille Militaire_ for bravery. He was better now, and that day
had a