And busy marts and crowded streets
Are wrapt alike in gloom.
And men who loathe the Cross and name
Which she was proud to own,
Yet pay their homage, meet and due,
To her good deeds alone.
Before many weeks had passed by, Miss Nightingale was again called to mourn the loss of another of her helpers. The next claimed by death was Sister Winifred, a Sister of Charity, who, with other nuns from Ireland, was tending the Irish soldiers in the hospital at Balaclava, to which they had recently come from Scutari and Kullali. Only a few days after her arrival Sister Winifred was attacked by cholera, which had broken out afresh at Balaclava.
Very touching is the account which Sister Mary Aloysius gives of the death of her comrade: “Our third day in Balaclava was a very sad one for us. One of our dear band, Sister Winifred, got very ill during the night with cholera. She was a most angelic sister, and we were all deeply grieved. She was attacked at about three o’clock in the morning with the symptoms which were now so well known to us; every remedy was applied; our beloved Rev. Mother never left her. She was attended by Father Unsworth, from whom she received the last rites of our holy religion; and she calmly breathed her last on the evening of the same day. A hut was arranged in which to place the remains; and so alarming were the rats—and such huge animals were they—that we had to watch during the night so that they should not touch her. She, the first to go of our little band (viz. the Roman Catholic sisters), had been full of life and energy the day before. We were all very sad, and we wondered who would be the next.”
A burial-place was found for Sister Winifred on a piece of ground between two rocks, on the hills of Balaclava, where her remains could repose without fear of desecration. The funeral formed a contrast to that of the Protestant sister at Smyrna, but was equally impressive. We can picture the sad cavalcade, distinguished by the symbols of the Roman Catholic faith, wending its way up the hillside to the lonely spot in the rocks above the Black Sea. Two priests preceded the coffin, chanting the prayers, and the black-robed nuns came closely behind, while soldiers and military and medical officers followed.
Amongst the mourning band walked one tall, slight figure dressed simply in black whose presence arrested attention. It was Florence Nightingale, who had come to pay her tribute of love and honour to the sister who, if divided by faith, had been united with her in holy work and deeds of mercy.