And I thought in great awe, “All I know or ever will know of that human being is his supreme hour.” And so fortuitous, so sudden was it all that I had not even time to breathe a word of prayer, nor even to reach out for his hand. And I, come from so far, so unrelated to him, was thus the destined witness of his passing. I can’t get it out of my mind. Doctor Poutrain loves his broken men, and he said, “I want no man who has been severely wounded or mutilated to leave my hospital without his decoration.” He had tears in his eyes as he stood by a bed where a bright-eyed, thin-faced boy was lying with a hip fracture. “He brought a comrade in, under fire, who was shot off his back as he was carrying him in.” In one of the beds an aviator was lying, brought in three days before; the eyes, the mouth, the whole face had still the peculiar look of strain. Indeed, three faces stand out in one’s mind—the captivity face, the hard, shining face and eyes of unwounded men just from the combat, and the faces of wounded aviators. About this time I noticed the gloomy look deepening on the face of our accompanying Esculapius, and it suddenly occurred to me “he is one of those who support with difficulty the praises of another.” For we _had_ been very explicit in praise of Doctor Poutrain’s wonderful installation. It was a slack day, and according to the record in the antechamber there had only been 517 brought in that day. We have tea with the _directrice_ of the _gardes-malades_ (ten or twelve women only), a friend of Madame Fould’s. As we sat there talking I discovered that the eager _médecin-chef_ had had, before the war, as hobby, archeology and ethnology, especially of the prehistoric races of Mexico; that he also possessed one of the few Aztec codices existing—all of which we discussed to the sound of the German guns and the whirring of their airplanes. We finally made our adieux, came home over the hot, unspeakably dusty road of the Champagne Pouilleuse, unreasonably disappointed that nobody would give us permission to make a little détour by Suippes, then under fire. We got back to our headquarters, packed our belongings, and diffidently brought up the subject of remuneration, which the _belle châtelaine_ firmly refused. I was traveling light, without a single thing approaching the superfluous, but Mrs. P. had a breakfast-cap and her tortoise-shell toilet things and trees for her shoes, and she also found among her belongings a lovely amber box, which she presented in token of our gratitude. We _could_ make the garrulous refugee from Tahure not only happy, but speechless, which was more to the point; and here we are, looking out on a darkening world, and there are soldiers bathing in the river, near stacked guns, and everywhere little detachments are marching down dim roads, and there are the eternal troop- and equipment-trains going to the front—and I feel an immense regret at leaving it all....