“Barra!” I did not understand, and he repeated: “Barra!” His poor chest caused him to hiss out the word, and he made the greatest efforts to repeat his emphatic request. I sent immediately to the Marine Office thinking that there would surely be some Breton seamen there, and I explained my difficulty, and my ignorance of the Breton dialect. I was informed that the word “barra” meant bread. I hurried at once to Le Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted up and, taking it from me with his sound hand, he broke it up with his teeth and let the pieces fall in the bowl. He then plunged his spoon into the middle of the broth and filled it up with bread until the spoon could stand upright in it. When it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier smiled. He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when the young priest from St. Sulpice, who had my _ambulance_ in charge, arrived. I had sent for him on hearing the doctor’s sad verdict. He laid his hand gently on the young man’s shoulder, thus stopping the movement of his arm. The poor fellow looked up at the priest, who showed him the Holy Cup. “Oh!” he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief over the steaming soup, he put his hands together. We had arranged the two screens, which we used for isolating the dead or dying, around his bed. He was left alone with the priest while I went on my rounds to calm the murmurers, or help the believers to raise themselves for the prayer. The young priest soon pushed aside the partition, and I then saw Marie le Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his abominable bread sop. He fell asleep soon afterward, roused up to ask for something to drink, and died immediately, in a slight fit of choking. Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred who came into my _ambulance_, for the death of the unfortunate ones completely upset me. I was very young at that time, only twenty-four years of age, but I could nevertheless see the cowardliness of some of the men, and the heroism of many of the others. A young Savoyard eighteen years old had had his forefinger taken off. Baron Larrey was quite sure that he had shot it off himself with his own gun, but I could not believe that. I noticed, though, that in spite of our nursing and care the wound did not heal. I bound it up in a different way, and the following day I saw that the bandage had been altered. I mentioned this to Mme. Lambquin, who was sitting up that night together with Mme. Guérard. “Good; I will keep my eye on him; you go to sleep, my child, and count on me.”