The French losses from cholera were frightful. The hospital had been formerly used as a Turkish barrack. It was a huge quadrangular building, like the barracks at Scutari, with a courtyard in the centre. The sides of the square were about 150 feet long, and each of them contained three floors, consisting of spacious corridors, with numerous rooms off them of fair height and good proportions. About one-third of the building was reserved for our use; the remainder was occupied by the French. Although not very old, the building was far from being in thorough repair. The windows were broken, the walls in parts were cracked and shaky, and the floors were mouldering and rotten. Like all places which have been inhabited by Turkish soldiers for any time, the smell of the buildings was abominable. Men sent in there with fevers and other disorders were frequently attacked with the cholera in its worst form, and died with unusual rapidity, in spite of all that could be done to save them. I visited the hospital one memorable night in search of medical aid for my friend Dickson, who was suddenly seized with cholera. I never can forget the aspect of the place--a long train of thirty-five carts filled with sick was drawn up by the wall. There were three or four men in each. These were soldiers sent in from the camps waiting till room could be found for them; others were sitting by the roadside, and the moonbeams flashed brightly off their piled arms. All were silent; the quiet that prevailed was only broken by the moans and cries of the sufferers in the carts. Observing many empty arabas were waiting in the square, I asked a _sous officer_ for what they were required. His answer, sullen and short, was,--"_Pour les morts_."