I arrived at Canny, where a red lantern shining through the darkness marked the entrance to the hospital. Wounded were stretched out in the porch, and the yard was full of them. The medical officers were hard at work in a veranda adjoining the main building. Through the multicoloured glass windows a diffused light filtered slowly, vaguely illuminating the men stretched on the straw. Now and again, when the door of the veranda opened, a rectangle of crude light spread along the ground, showing up a line of stretchers and the suffering faces of the severely wounded who were waiting for first aid. Two orderlies carried off the first stretcher of the row. The door swung to behind them and the yard was again plunged in a flickering half-light. I stood there, very tired, looking stupidly at the scene. My hand was still bleeding, but only drop by drop now. I asked a passing orderly: "Do you know when they'll be able to dress my wound?" "To-night. Lie down in the straw." I lay down where I was. Suddenly I heard a voice, at once infantile and yet grave, in my ear: "You wounded?" it said, with a strange accent. I turned and found a tall negro lying by my side. I could see nothing of him but two shining eyes. "Yes, I'm wounded, Sidi. You too?" "Yes, me wounded." He appeared to reflect for a moment: "Blacks ... wounded, wounded, wounded ... and then killed ... killed ... killed ... Boches ... oh! many, many Boches ... William!" "Ah! so you've heard of William?" "William ... bad chief ... lot of women ... many women!... ah!..." He paused an instant and then continued: "He many women ... big, bad chief ... like way back there ... back there ... killed the women ... cut ... cut.... Whish!... like that!..." "Why?" "Bad ... ah!... he got big house ... put women's heads on top ... on roof.... Ah, bad...." He searched for words: "Yes, put heads of women--many women--on roof of house ... bad, very bad...." I was in too much pain to sleep, and had perforce to listen to his childish babble. "So ... down there ... bad chief stick women's heads on roof ... not good, no!... down there!..." And then the Senegalese began to speak in his own language, a lisping, sweet-sounding tongue. Perhaps he was delirious. I felt cold, but nevertheless, after a time, found my eyelids growing heavy. Covering my legs with straw as best I could I stretched myself out and went to sleep. * * * * * It was still night when I awoke, and a thin rain, or rather drizzle, was falling. I was colder than ever, and my wound pained me severely. The veranda was still lit up. I could see the shadowy form of the negro lying next to me, but could no longer hear his breathing. I stretched out my hand and felt his. It was icy cold. The straw under me seemed wet. I looked, and discovered that my feet were lying in a pool of blood.