One, a woman of fifty, with black eyes and a stern expression, was carrying bandages and lint and giving orders to a young lad, a medical assistant, who was following her. The other, a very pretty girl of about twenty, whose pale, tender, fair face looked with a peculiarly sweet helplessness from under her white cap, was walking with her hands in her apron pockets by the side of the elder woman, and seemed afraid of being left behind.

Kozeltsóf asked them if they knew where Mártsof was, whose leg had been torn off the day before.

“He is of the P⁠⸺ regiment, I think?” asked the elder. “Is he a relation of yours?”

“No, a comrade.”

“Take them to him,” said she in French to the young Sister. “It is this way,” and she herself, followed by the assistant, went to one of the patients.