The Special Messenger drew her buckskin gloves carefully through her belt and buttoned the holster of her revolver.
“I have seen war, too,” she said; “and the men who dealt death and the men who received it. Their mystery remains—the glamour of a man remains for me—because he is a man.”
“I have heard them crying like children in the stretchers.”
“So have I. That solves nothing.”
But the Nurse went on:
“And in the wards they are sometimes something betwixt devils and children. All the weakness and failings they attribute to women come out in them—fear, timidity, inconsequence, greed, malice, gossip! And, as for courage—I tell you, women bear pain better.”
“Yes, I have learned that.... It is not difficult to beguile them either; to lead them, to read them. That is part of my work. I do it. I know they are afraid in battle—the intelligent ones. Yet they fight. I know they are really children—impulsive, passionate, selfish, often cruel—but, after all, they are here fighting this war—here encamped all around us throughout these hills and forests.... They have lost none of their glamour for me. Their mystery remains.”
The Volunteer Nurse looked up with a tired smile:
“You always were emotional, dear.”
“I am still.”