Neither the hardness of the plank beds nor the cold kept any one awake that night. There was far too much excitement to think of sleep. Gas-masks and wet laundry, water-bottles and boots, trench shovels and kit-bags, came down from the rafters in one mad scramble. Before the dawn had come everything was in place, and they trudged away through the rain and mud of Malodetchana, singing a Cossack marching song to lighten their packs and their spirits. All the world knows how they went into battle shouting a challenge to the deserting Russian troops. All the world knows that six of them stayed behind in the forest, with wooden crosses to mark their soldier graves. Ten were decorated for bravery in action with the Order of St. George, and twenty others received medals. Twenty-one were seriously wounded, and many more than that received contusions. Only fifty remained to take their places with the men in the trenches when the battle was over. The battle lasted for two days. Among the pines and the birches of the dusky forests they fought. With forty loyal men soldiers, they became separated from the main body of the troops, and took four rows of trenches before they were obliged to retreat for lack of reinforcements. I heard the story from the lips of twenty of the wounded women. No one of them can tell exactly what happened. “We were carried away in the madness of the moment,” one of them said. “It was all so strange and exciting, we had no time to think about being afraid.” “No,” said Marya Skridlova; “I was not afraid. None of us were afraid. We expected to die, so we had nothing to fear.” Then the demoiselle came to the surface again. “It was hard, though. I have a cousin--he is Russian in his heart, but his father is a German citizen. He was drafted: he had to go. When I saw the Germans, I thought of him. Suppose I should kill him? Yes, it is hard for a woman to fight.” Marya Skridlova got her Cross of St. George, and she came back to Petrograd walking with a limp as a result of shell shock. “There were wounded Germans in a hut,” she said. “We were ordered to take them prisoners. They refused to be taken. We had to throw hand-grenades in and destroy them. No; war is not easy for a woman.” I asked about Leana. “She was one of the six to stay behind,” Marya Skridlova answered. “She was wounded in sixteen places, and died in the hospital after hours of frightful suffering.” On a stool beside a hospital cot in which one of the wounded girls lay was a German helmet. She pointed to it with pride. “He was wounded,” she said. “He was sort of half kneeling, and I hit him over the head with the butt of my rifle and took the helmet away.” For a moment I could not speak. Then, reaching for a straw to save my tottering world, I said: “He was still shooting, of course?” “No, no. He was wounded.”