ambulance post, where they carved me some more.... My dog was
present at the first operation. An hour after my departure he
escaped and came to me at Anzin.

But when the Zouave was sent to Neuilly the two friends had to separate.
At the railway station he begged to take his dog along, and told his
story; but the field officer, touched though he was, could not take it
upon himself to send a dog on a military train. The distress of both man
and beast was so evident that more than one nurse had tears in her eyes
as the train pulled out.

They tried to pet the dog, dubbed him Tue-Boches, offered him dog
delicacies of all sorts, but in vain. He refused all food and remained
for two days "sad to death." Then some one went to the American
Hospital, told how the dog had saved the Zouave, and the upshot of it
was that the faithful animal, duly combed and passed through the
disinfecting room, was admitted to the hospital and recovered his master
and his appetite. But at last accounts his master was still very weak,
and "in the short visit which the dog is allowed to make each day, he
knows perfectly, after a tender and discreet good morning, how to hold
himself very wisely at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed upon his
patient."

Thanks to modern science, the cases of tetanus are few in this war, but
there are many deaths from gangrene, because, with no truce for the
removal of the wounded, so many lie for days before receiving medical
aid. Abbe Klein tells of one Breton boy, as gentle a soul as his
sister--"my little Breton," he always calls him, affectionately--and
comments again and again upon the boy's patient courage amid sufferings
that could have but one end. The infection spread in spite of all that
science could do, and even amputation could not save him. At last he
ceased to live, "like a poor little bird," as his French attendant,
herself a mother with three boys in the army, said with tears.

Saddest of all are the bereaved wives and mothers. The reader will find
many of them in the good Chaplain's book, and they will bring the war
closer than anything else. Sometimes they stand mute under the blow,
looking on the dead face without a sound, and then dropping unconscious
to the floor. Sometimes they cry wild things to heaven. The Chaplain's
work in either case is not easy, and some of his most touching pages
depict such scenes.

There was a boy of twenty years, who was slowly but surely dying of