THE sun had set over Bucharest, casting a blood-red glow upon the broad city and the distant horizon, until the window-panes gleamed like fiery eyes. Then a softer hue overspread everything: the plateau deepened to violet, the heavens grew rosy-red, and the mist, packed with unhealthy malarial vapor, stole from the lower levels, and night at last rolled slowly over the whole country. The continuous, raucous groaning of the shells, which filled the spaces between Giurgewo and Rustchuk with tremors, died away. I stood on the little veranda, usually so sunny, where already many convalescents had basked in the autumn warmth, and awaited the fresh convoy of wounded, which had been announced, but had not yet arrived. At last the long-drawn, melancholy shriek of the engine broke the silence of the night, and the long train steamed slowly into the little station of Cotroceni, which I had turned into a refuge for the wounded on their way to the various other hospitals.
     As far as was possible to one in haste, I selected for my care those whose wounds seemed to be the most severe, or whose condition needed most attention; but many dragged themselves along to implore that they might be taken too. I believe that they had a kind of superstition that my patients were more likely to be cured. In silence the solemn procession emerged from the darkness. The wounded men raised themselves in their beds to scan the new arrivals by the feeble and flickering light of the lamp which was always burning before the Ikon on the wall. A few, heavily groaning, lay still, and showed no interest: they did not even throw a glance towards the door. The surgeons moved from bed to bed changing the bandages; one of my ladies held a light, and I did what I could to encourage the nervous. They lay like tired