and amongst them was a wounded man who was lying in a small cart.
A hand bag had fallen across his leg, and none of his comrades
attempted to remove it. A French woman pushing her way between
the guards, lifted it off and gave it to one of the Germans to carry.
When the guards tried to remonstrate she replied simply: "J'ai un
fils prisonnier la bas, faut esperer qu'une allemande ferait autant
pour lui." ("I have a son who is a prisoner in their land; let us hope
that some German woman would do as much for him.")

On the battlefields the kindness of the French medical men to the
German wounded has always been conspicuous. One of my neutral
friends passing through Germany heard from one of the prominent
German surgeons that they were well aware of this fact, and knew that
their wounded received every attention. There is a story known throughout
France of a French doctor who was attending a wounded German
on the battlefield. The man, who was probably half delirious,
snatched at a revolver which was lying near by and attempted
to shoot the doctor. The doctor took the revolver from him, patted
him on the head, and said: "Voyons, voyons, ne faites pas l'enfant"
("Now then, now then, don't be childish") and went on dressing his wounds.

Everywhere you hear accounts of brotherly love and religious
tolerance. I remember kneeling once by the side of a dying French
soldier who was tenderly supported in the arms of a famous young
Mohammedan surgeon, an Egyptian who had taken his degree in
Edinburgh and was now attached to the French Red Cross. The
man's mind was wandering, and seeing a woman beside him he
commenced to talk to me as to his betrothed. "This war cannot last
always, little one, and when it is over we will buy a pig and a cow
and we will go to the cure, won't we, beloved?" Then in a lucid