The medal has been wrapped in a bit of muslin, so that the flies may not
soil it, and hung on the wall over the bed. It seems to be watching over
the wounded man, to be looking on at what is happening. Unfortunately,
what it sees is sad enough. The right leg, the only leg, is giving us
trouble now. The knee is diseased, it is in a very bad state, and all
we have done to save it seems to have been in vain. Then a sore has
appeared on the back, and then another sore. Every morning, we pass from
one misery to another, telling the beads of suffering in due order.
So a man does not die of pain, or Leglise would certainly be dead. I
see him still, opening his eyes desperately and checking the scream that
rises to his lips. Oh! I thought indeed that he was going to die. But
his agony demands full endurance; it does not even stupefy those it
assails.