THE COMING OF THE NIGHT It was sundown, and silent without, except for voices and the constant movement of men.

The din of battle, the roar of guns, had ceased, and everywhere gleamed the light of fires where the tired commands rested.
The house stood, shattered but stanch, great gaping holes in its side, the front a mere wreck, the lower rooms in disorder, with windows smashed, and pools of hardening blood staining the floors.

Appearing from without a ruin, it yet afforded shelter to the wounded.
I had had my own wounds washed and cared for.

They were numerous enough and painful--an ugly slash in the side, a broken rib, the crease of a bullet across the temple, and a shoulder crushed by a terrific blow, together with minor bruises from head to heels--and yet none to be considered serious.

They had carried me up the shattered stairs to her room, and I lay there bolstered up by soft pillows, and between clean sheets, my eyes, feverish and wide-awake, seeking out the many little things belonging to her scattered about, ever reminded of what had occurred, and why I was there, by my own ragged, stained uniform left lying upon a chair.