Pitiful are the stories M. Dunant tells of individual cases. Man after man would cry out in despair, “Oh, do not let me die,” as they seized the hands of their kind benefactor. “Oh, sir, please write to my father to console my poor mother!” exclaimed a young corporal of only twenty. M. Dunant took the address of his parents and in a few minutes the poor boy was dead. He was an only son, and but for the letter M. Dunant sent his parents they would never have learned his fate. An old sergeant, decorated with many chevrons, repeated with great sadness and with bitter conviction, “If I had only had care at first I should have lived—and now I must die,” and death came to him at nightfall. “I will not die! I will not die!” cried with almost fierce energy a grenadier of the guards, who only three days before was well and strong and who now, fatally wounded, struggled against this certain fate. M. Dunant talked with him, and, listening, he became calm and consoled, and finally resigned himself to death with the simplicity of a child. On the steps of an altar, which were covered with straw, lay an African Chasseur, wounded in the thigh, leg and shoulder. For three days he had had nothing to eat. He was covered with dried mud and blood, his clothing was in rags. After M. Dunant had bathed his wounds, given him some bouillon and placed a blanket over him the poor fellow lifted his benefactor’s hands to his lips with an expression of infinite gratitude. At the entrance of the church was a Hungarian who kept crying aloud for a doctor. His back and shoulders, lacerated by grape-shot, were one quivering mass of raw flesh. The rest of his body was horribly swollen. He could not lie down nor rest. Gangrene had set in and the end came soon. Not far from him lay a dying zouave, crying bitterly. The fatigue, the lack of food and rest, the horror of the suffering, the fear of dying without any care developed among even the bravest soldiers a nervous condition that reduced many to tears. Often when not overcome by pain the dominant thought of the soldier was for his mother, and the fear of what she would suffer when she learned of his death. Around the neck of one of the dead men was found a locket containing the portrait of an elderly woman, evidently his mother, which, with his left hand, he had pressed to his heart. On the pavement outside the church lay about one hundred French soldiers. They were placed in two long rows between which one could pass. Their wounds had been dressed and some soup given to them. They were calm, following with their eyes M. Dunant as he moved among them. Some said he was from Paris; others from South France. One asked if he were not from Bordeaux. Each wished to claim him for their own province or city. They called him “The Gentleman in White” because of the white clothes he wore. The resignation of these poor soldiers was pathetic; they suffered without complaint and died humbly and quietly.