"War may be hell; very likely it is for those who make it; but for us who
do the patching afterward it's like the Day of Creation. I feel as if I'd
put new souls into mended bodies." And the gruff, overtired chief who
heard her smiled and mumbled to himself, "Those of us who survive will all
have new souls; old ones have atrophied and dropped off."

Fall was slow in coming. Instead of settling down to trench hibernating as
had been the custom for three years, the Entente kept to its periodic
attacks, pushing the enemy back farther and still a little farther, so
that trenches were no longer the permanent abiding-places they had been in
the past. Just as every one was prophesying the numbing of hostilities
until spring, the rumor spread of Foch's final drive. On the heels of the
rumor came the drive itself. Hospitals were taxed to their utmost;
surgeons and nurses worked for days with a maximum of four hours' sleep a
night. In Sheila's hospital Anzacs, Territorials, poilus, Americans,
Tommies, and Zouaves poured in indiscriminately. Mattresses covered every
square inch on the floor and canvas was stretched in the yard over many
more. The number of operating-tables gave out at the beginning and they
used stretchers, boards--anything that could hold a wounded man.

"It's our last pull," said the doctors. "If we can keep going three--four
more days, we'll have as many months to get back some of our wind."

"Of course we'll keep going," said the nurses. And they slept in their
clothes for those days and did dressings in their sleep.

When it was over and they had settled down to what was near-routine again
they began to sort out the minor cases and pass on the convalescents.
Sheila, who had slept on the threshold of her room for weeks, was dragged
forth by the chief to make the rounds with him and dispose of the
negligible cases. It was in the last ward that she came upon Monsieur
Satan.

From across the room she was conscious of the change in him. He was not
much hurt--an exploding shell had damaged one foot and his heart had been
strained. It was a mental change that caught Sheila's attention. The eyes
had grown abnormally alert and cunning; there was nothing boyish or naive
left to the mouth; it was sinister, vengeful, unrelenting. He was in a
wheel-chair between two husky giants of Australians who kept wary eyes
upon him. As the surgeon and the nurse reached them, Monsieur Satan
tossed his head back with a sudden rec