too bright, captain. I will put up a paper screen so you
can get to sleep.'

"He realized at once the absurdity and the ludicrous side, and with an
amused smile replied: 'But you know I can't see the moonlight.'

"I said it was time to get more ice for his head and half stumbled
across the porch, blinded by tears. When told who his nearest neighbor
was, Captain Mills expressed great sympathy for Private Clark and paid a
high tribute to the bravery of the colored troops and their faithful
performance of duty.

"Private Clark talked but little. He would lie apparently asleep until
the pain in his head became unbearable. Then he would try to sit up,
always careful to keep the ice-pad on his eyes over the bandage.

"'What can I do for you, Clark?' I would ask, anxious to relieve his
pain.

"'Nothing, thank you,' he would answer. 'It's very nice and comfortable
here. But it's only the misery in my head--the misery is awful.'

"Poor fellow! there was never a moan, merely a little sigh now and
then, but always that wonderful patience that seemed to me not without a
touch of divine philosophy, complete acceptance.

"I have mentioned these two men, not as exceptional in bravery, but to
illustrate the rule of heroism, and because they were among the patients
under my immediate care that night. It was a strange night picture--a
picture that could never be dimmed by time but live through all the
years of one's life.

"After midnight a restful atmosphere pervaded the hospital and the
blessing of sleep fell upon the suffering men, one by one. In the little
interval of repose I dropped into an old chair on the porch, looked away
to the beautiful mountains sharply outlined in the moonlight, and the
sea like waves of silver, the camp on the shore; near by thirty or forty
horses standing motionless. Then the hospital tents, with now and then
the flickering light of a candle; in the background the cliffs, with
here and there a Spanish blockhouse. Over all the tragedy of life and
death, the pain and sorrow, there was the stillness of a peaceful
night--a stillness broken only by the sound of the surf brought back on
the cool breeze, the cool, refreshing breeze, for which we all thanked
God."

Later on, as will be remembered, Miss Jennings went North--a volunteer
nurse on the transport Seneca. The brave men whose lives hung in the
balance that night--with little hope that, if life were spared, they
would ever see again--recovere