long to get it to work, and in a few minutes he began to respond to the
hot salt and water running into his vessels. Alas it was only for a
moment. He was bleeding internally, and nothing could be done. I
went over to the priest, who had just come, and said: "C'est a vous,
monsieur." He bowed, and came forward holding in his hands the holy
oil. A few murmured words were spoken, the priest's finger traced the
sign of the Cross, a few moments of silence, and all was over. Death
is always impressive, but I shall never forget that scene. The large
schoolroom, with its improvised equipment, ourselves, a crowd of
nurses and doctors standing round, in the centre the sandalled priest
bending downwards in his brown mantle, and the dying man, his lips
moving to frame the last words he would speak on earth. It was in
silence that we stole out into the sunlight of the courtyard.

We went on to Sempst, a small village at the extreme limit of the
Belgian lines. A little stream ran under the road beside a farm, and a
rough breastwork had been thrown across the road to defend the
bridge. German soldiers could be seen a mile down the road moving
behind the trees. It was only a small Belgian outpost, but it was a
good enough position to hold, so long as the enemy did not bring up
artillery. A machine gun was hidden beside the bridge, and would
have made short work of anyone advancing up the road. My friends
were talking to the men, whom we knew quite well; and for a moment I
was standing alone, when one of the soldiers came up and asked
about the man whom we had just left, and who had come from near
by. I told him what had happened, and for a moment he did not speak.
At last he looked up at me with tears in his eyes, and said simply: "He
was my brother, and this morning we were laughing together." I held
his hand for a moment, and then he turned away and went back to his
post.