lack feet cut off above the ankles;
one of a group of convalescents standing on the hospital steps.

"There he is," she said, pointing-to a man with a slightly crooked jaw--
the man whose history we had just read. "We saved it. It isn't such a
bad face, after all."

The worst wounds, of course, do not come to a hospital so far from the
front as this--they never leave the battle-field at all. In Turkey, for
instance, where travelling is difficult, very few of those shot through
the trunk of the body ever got as far as Constantinople--nearly all of
the patients were wounded in the head, arms, or legs. On over a
thousand patients in this Budapest hospital the following statistics are
based: Rifle wounds, 1,095; shrapnel, 138; shell, 2; bayonet, 2; sabre,
1; hand-grenade, 1; frozen feet, 163; frozen hands, 100; rheumatism, 65;
typhoid, 38; pneumonia, 15; tetanus, 5; gas infection, 5. Deaths, 19--
septicemia, 7; pneumonia, tetanus, typhoid, 1. It was dark when I
started down-stairs, through that warm, brooding stillness of a hospital
at night. The ward at the head of the stairs was hushed now, and the
hall lamp, shining across the white trousers of an orderly dozing in his
chair within the shadow of the door and past the screen drawn in front
of it, dimly lit the foot of the line of beds where the men lay
sleeping.

Nothing could happen to them now--until they were sound again and the
order came to go out and fling themselves again under the wheels. The
doctor on duty for the night, coat off, was stretched on his sofa
peacefully reading under a green lamp. And, as I went down-stairs past
the three long wards, the only sign of life was in a little circle of
light cast by a single lamp over the bed of one of the new patients,
lighting up the upturned profile of a man and the fair hair of the young
night nurse bending over him and silently changing the cloths on his
chest.

We dined late that evening on an open balcony at the top of the house.
People in Vienna and Budapest like to eat and drink in the open air.
Below us lay the dark velvet of the park, with an occasional lamp, and
beyond, over the roofs of Pest, the lights of Buda across the river.

Up through the trees came the voices of men singing. I asked what this
might be. They were men, my friends explained, who had had their legs
amputated. There were fifty-eight of them, and the people who owned the
big, empty garden across the street had set it aside