yard. The beautiful East window of the Cathedral was shivered to atoms,
and likewise every window in the Hospital. All our watches had stopped.

Crashing over broken glass to the surgical side, we pantingly asked if
everyone was safe. We met Porter coming down the stairs, a stream of
blood flowing from a cut on her forehead. I hastily got some dressings
for it. Luckily it was only a flesh wound, and not serious. Besides the
night nurses at the Hospital, the chauffeurs and housekeeper slept in
the far end of the big room at the top of the building. They had not
been awakened (so accustomed were they to din and noise), until the
crash of the bomb on the Cathedral, and it was by the glass being blown
in on to their stretcher beds that Porter had been cut; otherwise no one
else was hurt.

I plunged through the débris back to the typhoids, wondering how 23 had
got on, or rather got out, and, would you believe it, his delirium had
gone and he was sleeping quietly like a child! The only bit of good the
Boche ever did I fancy, for the shock seemed to cure him and he got well
from that moment.

The others were in an awful mess, and practically every man's bed was
full of broken glass. You can imagine what it meant getting this out
when the patients were suffering from typhoid, and had to be moved as
little as possible! One boy in Salle V had a flower pot from the
window-sill above fixed on his head! Beyond being slightly dazed, and of
course covered with mould, he was none the worse; and those who were
well enough enjoyed his discomfiture immensely. Going into Salle III
where there were shouts of laughter (the convalescents were sent to that
room) I saw a funny sight. One little man, who was particularly fussy
and grumpy (and very unpopular with the other men in consequence), slept