ON TEE LONDON BOAD. 255 



he found solace, and possibly recovery. To catch a 

 glimpse of that dark and cavernous eye under the 

 shade of the travelling tent reminded me of the eyes 

 of the wounded in the ambulance-waggons that came 

 pouring into Brussels after Sedan. In the dusk of 

 the lovely September evenings — it was a beautiful 

 September, the lime-leaves were just tinted with 

 orange — the waggons came in a long string, the 

 wounded and maimed lying in them, packed carefully, 

 and rolled round, as it were, with wadding to save 

 them from the jolts of the ruts and stones. It is 

 fifteen years ago, and yet I can still distinctly see 

 the eyes of one soldier looking at me from his berth 

 in the waggon. The glow of intense pain — the glow 

 of long-continued agony — lit them up as coals that 

 smouldering are suddenly fanned. Pain brightens 

 the eyes as much as joy, there is a fire in the brain 

 behind it; it is the flame in the mind you see, and 

 not the eyeball. A thought that might easily be 

 rendered romantic, but consider how these poor 

 fellows appeared afterwards. Bevies of them hopped 

 about Brussels in their red-and-blue uniforms, some 

 on crutches, some with two sticks, some with sleeves 

 pinned to their breasts, looking exactly like a company 

 of dolls a cruel child had mutilated, snapping a foot 

 off here, tearing out a leg here, and battering the 

 face of a third. Little men most of them — the bowl 

 of a German pipe inverted would have covered them 

 all, within which, like bees in a hive, they might hum 

 ** Te Deum Bismarckum Laudamus." But the 

 romantic flame in the eye is not always so beautiful 

 to feel as to read about. 



