It came from the door of a long-disused schoolroom, now turned into the receiving-hall of this strange hospital. The big, high room was lit by one light only, a kerosene hand lamp standing on the teacher's desk, and so smoked was the chimney that the wick gave hardly more light than a candle. There was just enough illumination to see about thirty Algerians sitting at the school desks, their big bodies crammed into the little seats, and to distinguish others lying in stretchers here and there upon the floor. At the teacher's table a little French adjutant with a trim, black mustache and a soldier interpreter were trying to discover the identity of their visitors. "Number 2215," (numéro deux mille deux cent quinze), the officer cried; and the interpreter, leaning over the adjutant's shoulder to read the name, shouted, "Méhémet Ali." There was no answer, and the Algerians looked round at each other, for all the world like children in a school. It was very curious to see these dark, heavy, wild faces bent over these disused desks. "Number 2168" (numéro deux mille cent soixante huit), cried the adjutant. "Abdullah Taleb," cried the interpreter. "Moi," answered a voice from a stretcher in the shadows of the floor. "Take him to room six," said the adjutant, indicating the speaker to a pair of stretcher-bearers. In the quieter pauses the rain was heard beating on the panes. There are certain streets in Paris, equally unknown to tourist and Parisian--obscure, narrow, cobble-stoned lanes, lined by walls concealing little orchards and gardens. So provincial is their atmosphere that it would be the easiest thing in the world to believe one's self on the fringe of an old town, just where little bourgeois villas begin to overlook the fields; but to consider one's self just beyond the heart of Paris is almost incredible. Down such a street, in a great garden, lay the institution to which our two Frenchmen were assigned. We had a hard time finding it in the night and rain, but at length, discovering the concierge's bell, we sent a vigorous peal clanging through the darkness. Oiler lifted the canvas flap of the ambulance to see about our patients. "All right in there, boys?" "Yes," answered a voice. "Not cold?" "Non. Are we at the hospital?" "Yes; we are trying to wake up the concierge." There was a sound of a key in a lock, and a small, dark woman opened the door. She was somewhat spinstery in type, her thin, black hair was neatly parted in the middle, and her face was shrewd, but not unkindly. "Deux blessés (two wounded), madame," said I. The woman pulled a wire loop inside the door, and a far-off bell tinkled. "Come in," she said. "The porter will be here immediately." We stepped into a little room with a kind of English look to it, and a carbon print of the Sistine Madonna on the wall. "Are they seriously wounded?" she asked. "I cannot say."