Saxon by the name of Bruno, almost a boy in years, who was brought in
from Champigny. He won our hearts from the very first by asking that
a suffering Frenchman who lay beside him might have his wounds dressed
before his own. He was dangerously and painfully wounded himself,
yet no one ever heard him complain. I shall never hear the "Wacht am
Rhein" without thinking of him, for he was the first one that I ever
heard sing it. He sang it to me one night in return for some old
German songs I had tried to cheer him with; that is, he sang some
of it: his voice was so feeble that I had to stop him. He seemed to
expect death, and was prepared for it. His long, wavy blonde hair and
his beardless boy face were always beautiful, but imagine them when
his blue eyes were lit up by the sentiment of that song!

The next night, when I came to visit Bruno, a French National Guard
was dying not far from him, with wife and family kneeling around the
bed. The tent was hushed, and I hesitated a moment at the door. One or
two American ladies, volunteer nurses of the ambulance, were grouped
near the dying man back of the family. Suddenly, Lisette, an Alsatian
nurse who worked devotedly night and day for friend or foe alike, and
who in her neat white cap had been standing in a corner wiping her
eyes, approached me and said in her broad German French, _"Partonn_,
but I will pray for this poor unfortunate." And she dropped on her
knees beside the bed and commenced aloud in German a simple, earnest,
honest prayer to which the scene and the language gave an effect
utterly indescribable. There were few dry eyes in the tent. Soon
after that I could tell by the movements about the bed that the poor
National Guard was dead. I turned to the bedside of the wounded Saxon,
and found his hands clasped upon his breast and his lips muttering a
prayer for his enemy.