A Boer shell had gone
clean through the roof just over their heads. The man sat up,
yelling with fear. Poor chap, you couldn't blame him; dying, and
half under morphine. The Honourable Jane never turned a hair. 'Lie
down, my man,' she said, 'and keep still.' 'Not here,' sobbed the
man. 'All right,' said the Honourable Jane; 'we will soon move you.'
Then she turned and saw me. I was in the most nondescript khaki, a
non-com's jacket which I had caught up on leaving the tent, and
various odds and ends of my outfit which had survived the wear and
tear of the campaign. Also I was dusty with a long gallop. 'Here,
serjeant,' she said, 'lend a hand with this poor fellow. I can't
have him disturbed just now.' That was Jane's only comment on the
passing of a shell within a few yards of her own head. Do you wonder
the men adored her? She placed her hands beneath his shoulders, and
signed to me to take him under the knees, and together we carried
him round a screen, out of the ward, and down a short passage;
turning unexpectedly into a quiet little room, with a comfortable
bed, and photographs and books arranged on the tiny dressing-table.
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