e Sisters' underground abode. And he went down to meet
his Fate there.

XXVIII

The temporary Convent was a roomy trench dug out of the red gravelly sand,
lined with the inevitable sheets of corrugated iron, and roofed with the
same material, supported by a solid frame of steel rails. Wide chinks
between the metal sheets gave admission to light and air, and earthen
drain-pipes made ventilators in the walls. But the sunlight penetrated
like spears of burning flame, and the air was stifling hot. The paraffin
stove that heated irons for Sister Tobias smelled clamorously, and the
droning of myriads of flies, not the least of the seven plagues of
Gueldersdorp, kept up a persistent bass to the shrill singing of the
little tin kettle. Later, when the April rains began, and the tarpaulins
were pulled over the sand-bagged roof, tin lamps burning more paraffin did
battle with Cimmerian darkness.

Saxham's professional approval was won by the marvellous cleanliness and
neatness of the place, divided into living-room and dormitory by a heavy
green baize curtain, that at the Convent had shut off the noise of the
great classroom from the rest of the house. The curtain was drawn, hiding
the little iron cots brought from the Sisters' cells, ascetic couches
whose narrow wire mattresses must afford scant room for repose to double
sleepers now, where all were crowded, and Conventual rules must be in
abeyance. The outer place held a deal table, the oil cooking-stove; some
household utensils shining with cleanliness were ranged upon a shelf, and
several pictures hung upon the walls. Upon a bracket the silver Crucifix
from the altar of the Convent chapel gleamed against the background of a
snowy, lace-bordered linen cloth. There were orderly piles of cleaned and
mended clothes, military and civilian, the garments of sick and wounded
male patients, who would leave the Hospital without a thought of the
unselfish women who had foregone sleep to patch jackets and sew on missing
buttons. There were haversacks of coarse canvas for the Volunteers,
finished and partly made, with ammunition-pouches and bandoliers. And
Sister Tobias stood ironing at the deal table, partly screened by a line
of drying linen, while Sister Mary-Joseph turned the mangle, and the
little brisk novice, her round cheeks no longer rosy, folded with active
hands. The Dop Doctor's keen quick glance took note of the patient
cheerful weariness written on the three faces,