of the mine, 'was dressing the wounds; at the other,

near the stairs, Father corbelan. kneeling, listened t- the confession of a dying cargador. Mrs. Gould was walking alxnit through these shamhlrs with a large bottle in one hand and a lot of cotton - wool in the other. She just looked at me and never even winked. Her camerista was following her, also holding a bottle, and sobbing gently to herself. " I busied myself for some time in fetching v. from the cistern for the wounded. Afterwards I wan- dered up-stairs, meeting some of the first ladies of Sulaco, paler than I had ever seen them before, with bandages over their arms. Not all of them had fled to the ships. A good many had taken refuge for the day in the Casa Gould. On the landing a girl, with her hair half down, was kneeling against the wall under the niche where stands a Madonna in blue robes and a gilt crown on her head. I think it was the eldest Miss Lopez. I couldn't see her face, but I remember looking at the high French heel of her little shoe. She did not make a sound, she did not stir, she was not sobbing; she remained there, perfectly still, all black against the white wall, a silent figure of passion- ate piety. I am sure she was no more frightened than the other white-faced ladies I met carrying bandages. One was sitting on the top step tearing a piece of linen hastily into strips the young wife of an elderly man of fortune here. She interrupted herself to wave her hand to my bow, as though she were in her car- riage on the Alameda. The women of our country are worth looking at during a revolution. The rouge and

pearl - powder fall off, together with that passive at-