It was so quiet that when a little column of
men turned into the head of the street which wound past the front of the
church and off to the left, I heard the measured tramping of their feet
upon the stony roadway fully a minute before they came in sight. I was
wondering what that rhythmic thumping meant, when one of the nursing
sisters came and closed the high wooden door at my back, shutting off
the view of the wounded men.
There appeared a little procession, headed by a priest in his robes and
two altar-boys. At the heels of these three were six soldiers bearing
upon their shoulders a wooden box painted a glaring yellow; and so
narrow was the box and so shallow-looking, that on the instant the
thought came to me that the poor clay inclosed therein must feel cramped
in such scant quarters. Upon the top of the box, at its widest, highest
point, rested a wreath of red flowers, a clumsy, spraddly wreath from
which the red blossoms threatened to shake loose. Even at a distance of
some rods I could tell that a man's inexpert fingers must have fashioned
it.
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