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A heart-rending subdued moan filled the
church with awe. On the straw-covered floor
lay, side by side, over a hundred grievously
wounded soldiers. They were all dying men,
with blood-stained, mud-covered, greatcoats
hiding ghastly wounds and torn limbs. Here
and there the very straw was red, and
streamlets of blood trickled slowly down the slippery
marble floor. Here and there well-meaning
but inexperienced hands had tried to stem
the hæmorrhage or to cover a gaping wound
with some improvised sort of bandage made
out of a towel or a torn sheet. Most of the
men, however, lay there as they had been
picked up by the villagers in the abandoned
trenches or under the hedges along the muddy
river bank. The two doctors had not half
finished their round before the new-comer
had taken out of his pocket his morphia
syringe, once again to prove itself more
valuable than all surgical instruments put
together. The village doctor raised his hands
to heaven in a gesture of despair. He took
his colleague into the sacristy, and opening a
cupboard in the wall he pointed to a row
of old-fashioned faience jars, labelled with
names in Latin of a dozen useless drugs and
ointments. No morphia, no chloroform, no
ether, no anæsthetics whatsoever; no iodine,
no disinfectants, no dressing material of any
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