In the part nearest the great door of the church Maggiore lie, now, on straw, enveloped in covers, about a hundred French non-commissioned officers and soldiers. They are ranged in two nearly parallel ranks, between which one can pass. Their wounds have been dressed. The distribution of soup has taken place. They are quiet. They follow me with their eyes; all heads turn to the left if I go to the left, to the right when I go to the right. Sincere thanks are visible on their astonished faces. "One can easily see that he is a Parisian," say some. "No," retort others, "he seems to be a Southerner." "Truly, sir, are you not from Bordeaux?" asks a third, and each wishes that I might be from his city or province. I met afterwards some of these wounded men, who had become crippled invalids. Recognizing me, they stopped to express their gratitude because I had nursed them in Castiglione. "We called you 'the gentleman in white,'" said one, in his picturesque language, "for you were always dressed entirely in white. It is true the weather did not fail to be hot." The resignation of the poor soldiers was often touching; they suffered without complaint, they died humbly and silently. On the other side of the church, some wounded Austrian prisoners fear to receive care which they distrust. They angrily tear off their bandages, opening their bleeding wounds. Others remain silent, dejected, impassive. But the greater number are far from being insensible to kindness and their faces express their thanks. One of them, about nineteen years of age, who with forty of his compatriots is pushed into the deep recesses of the church, has been without food for two days. He has lost one eye, he trembles with fever, he is scarcely able to speak or to drink a little bouillon. Our nursing revives him; twenty-four hours later when we are able to send him to Brescia, he leaves us with sorrow, almost with despair, pressing to his lips the hands of the good-hearted women of Castiglione, whom he entreats not to abandon him. Another prisoner, a prey to a burning fever, draws attention to himself. He is not yet twenty years of age and his hair is already perfectly white; it became white during the battle, as his wounded comrades near whom he lies assure us. The women of Castiglione, seeing that I make no distinction in nationality, imitate my example, showing the same kindness to all these men of such different origin and who are to them all equally strangers. "Tutti Fratelli," they repeat with compassion. "All are brothers." Honor to these compassionate women, to these young girls of Castiglione! As devoted as they are modest, they give way neither before fatigue, nor disgust, nor sacrifice; nothing repels, wearies or disheartens them.