" I
remember one most touching scene when a soldier servant accompanied his
wounded officer to hospital. The officer was quite a young,
delicate-looking boy, who had been shot through the chest. His servant
was a huge, rough Cossack, who would hardly let any of us touch his
master if he could help it, and stayed by his bed night and day till the
end, when, his great frame heaving with sobs and tears streaming down
the seamed and rugged face, he threw himself over the officer's body and
implored God to let him die too.
The hospital began to grow empty and the work slackened down, as every
possible patient was sent away to Moscow or Petrograd to make room for
the rush of wounded that must be coming from the Lodz direction. But no
patients arrived, and we heard that the railway communications had been
cut. But this proved to be untrue.
One Sunday afternoon Sister G. and I, being free, betook ourselves to
tea at the Hotel d'Europe--that well-named hostelry which has probably
seen more history made from its windows than any other hotel in Europe.
We favoured it always on Sunday when we could, for not only was a
particularly nice tea to be had, but one could also read there a not
_too_ old French newspaper.
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