Inside there is an equal variety of sounds. There are _poilus_ snoring in seven different octaves, there is the splutter of the candle overhead, and from one corner an occasional moan from some wounded man, growing more frequent as the night wears on. We may not take him in until we have enough for a load. Soon there is the sound of feet on the stairs, and a _brancardier_ stumbles in leading a man raving wildly, with his head swathed in fresh bandages rapidly staining with the oozing blood. Some one moves, and he is seated and given a cup of _Pinard_ and a cigarette, which he accepts gratefully. We get ready to go out to the ambulance, but the doctor shakes his head—we have not a load yet. Some of the regulations perplex us; but it is not our business, so we light up our pipes again and snuggle down into our fur coats, dozing and listening to the whine of the shells outside and the moans inside. Then, after a while, another _blessé_ is brought to the door and the doctor nods. Two of us jump up, snatch our _musettes_, run to the car, and assist the _brancardiers_ in shoving in the third man, who is unconscious. Then we crank up, and after some minutes of manœuvring in the deep mud reach the road and start for the hospital. * * * * * THE black of the night, split by the star-shells and the batteries, has given place to the grey of the dawn. All is still and quiet, with the rare crash of a battery or an _arrivée_ alone breaking the silence. There is no sign of the sun, and it will be some hours before it breaks through the early mist to smile upon us for a few brief moments before the never-ending rain envelops us again,—for it is the _mauvais temps_. After lying for two hours in one of the bunks in the _abri_, and vainly endeavoring to keep warm with two _blessé_ blankets, I arise stiffly and crawl out into the fresh air. The _blessé_ blankets are single blankets quartered and, as they are assigned for use in the ambulances and _abris_ for the wounded, often bring little visitors. [Illustration: AN ABRI]