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 curé, won't we, beloved?" Then in a
lucid moment he realised that he was dying, and he commenced to pray,
"Ave Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could remember nothing
more. He turned to me to continue, but I could no longer trust myself to
speak, and it was the Mohammedan who took up the prayer and continued it
whilst the soldier followed with his lips until his soul passed away
into the valley of shadows. I think this story is only equalled in its
broad tolerance by that of the Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the
battle of the Aisne whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying
Christian soldier. The soldier-priests of France have earned the love
and respect of even the most irreligious of the _poilus_. They never
hesitate to risk their lives, and have displayed sublime courage and
devotion to their duty as priests and as soldiers. Behind the first line
of trenches a soldier-priest called suddenly to attend a dying comrade
took a small dog he was nursing, and handing it to one of the men,
simply remarked, "Take care of the little beast for me; I am going to a
dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."

I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun-carriage. Vases made of
shell-cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their lives
to gather, in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross ambulance