One day when I was giving electricity lately at the Ambulance, a poor little Zouave hobbled in--he had only one leg left--and held up a maimed hand for me to treat. He was not a very interesting-looking specimen--rather sullen and discouraged, I thought--but as I looked at his frail little body and his disfigured hand, I looked at his breast too. Three medals were on it--the Legion of Honor, the Croix de Guerre, and the Médaille Militaire--all a man can get! And he was just a little soldier of Africa--a nondescript man whose name would only be heard at other times to be forgotten. Jacquemin. "_Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait pour mériter tout cela, mon ami?_" _Pour mériter tout cela, parbleu!_ He has one leg only, one hand only, and he has back of him eight months of hospital and eight months of horror, for his sufferings have been beyond words. Jacquemin! Oh, his name is pretty well known now in a certain Sector! "_Qu'est-ce que vous aves fait pour mériter tout cela?_" Three medals across that narrow chest! Well, alone, on a bad night, in storm and rain, he was a volunteer patrol. Alone, he brought in four German prisoners. He was a volunteer for six _patrouilles_ of the gravest danger--not always alone, but always fetching in prisoners and more prisoners. Bad for the Germans. He carried his superior officer, wounded, out under fire and saved his life. Then there was a line of trenches where a hundred and fifty-six men--they know his name: Jacquemin! Jacquemin with the little mongrel dog always at his heels--a hundred and fifty-six men had eaten nothing for four days but the sodden bread left in their haversacks. Jacquemin filled several wagons full of bread and seating himself on the driver's seat of the first, he drove in that life-giving line under the fire of shot and shell, right into the very jaws of death. He brought sufficient supplies to save the line of trenches, for otherwise they would have had to evacuate them through starvation, as indeed was the case with others where this gay little Zouave could not reach. Just the giving of food to the faint and hungry men whose stern faces were set against death. That act brought him one of those medals across his breast--I forget which. Finally, the shot and shell which he had braved so many times was bound to get him, and with his leg and arm almost shot away he lay for dead amongst the other slain, and they buried him. They buried Jacquemin. Fortunately or unfortunately--it depends upon how he regards a life which he will live through henceforth with only one leg and only one arm--a little bit of his soldier's coat sprouted out of the ground. (They don't always bury deep on those fields.) And his dog saw it and smelled and dug and dug, and whined and cried, until they came and unburied Jacquemin and brought him back. He is sitting up there at the Ambulance now, and his little dog is sometimes in the kitchen and sometimes comes up to the wards. Jacquemin!