We could make out the forms of many black objects--dead men, killed so near their own trenches, too! Hias was beside me, and with his sharp peasant eyes soon espied the body of the poor fellow we were after. The lieutenant crawled out, and we followed. Coming up to him, I called softly, "_Camarade!_" I did not want to frighten him; besides, he might scream for help, then we would be in a nice fix. "Oh, oh, _Dieu! Dieu!_" he breathed and emitted sounds like the joyful whining of a puppy when he saw me. He grasped my hand and pressed it to his breast and cheek. I felt him over carefully. As I fumbled along his left leg I received a sudden shock. Just below the calf it ended. The foot was torn off above the angle and hung loosely on the leg. As his whole body was wet I could not tell whether he was still bleeding. I could only make out that a rag was tied about the wound. He had bandaged it with his handkerchief, as I learned later. We soon had him beside his comrade. The lieutenant went back to his command, leaving the rest to me. The others carried the corporal away to the nearest aid station, while I remained with his comrade, who, as he lay there, softly spoke to me about himself--his wife and his child--of the mobilization. This was his first day at the front. Fate had overtaken him swiftly. He was a handsome man, with big, black eyes, dark hair and mustache. His pale, bloodless face made him doubly interesting. His voice was so tender and soft that I was touched; I could not help it. I gently stroked him: "_Pauvre, pauvre camarade Français!_" "Oh, monsieur, _c'est tout pour la patrie_." I lay down and nestled up close to him and threw my coat over him, for he was beginning to shiver with fever and frost. Then it began to rain very softly. So we lay one-half, three-quarters, a whole hour. At last, after one and a half hours, the comrades returned. My poor wounded one was crying softly to himself. He was soon in the hands of a physician and an attendant. His wounds were looked after and he was given some cold coffee. I had to go. A look of unutterable gratefulness, which I shall never forget, a nod: "_Bonne nuit, monsieur_," and I was outside in the cold, damp December night. WILHELM SPENGLER. III--A BELGIAN MOTHER AND HER BABE Ingelmünster, November, 1914. In Fosses, near Namur, I happened to be the only physician in the place, as all the doctors had fled. So it came about that the first prescriptions that I have ever written were in the French language. It was rather odd, but it went. The sixty-five-year-old apothecary and I have opened many good bottles of Burgundy in his bachelor apartment while he told of his student days in Geneva and Brussels; I of Germany and its glories.