The three hospitals of Lourdes had emptied their
chambers of horror. To begin with, those who were still able to remain
seated had been piled upon the benches. Many of them, however, were
propped up with cushions, whilst others kept shoulder to shoulder, the
strong ones supporting the weak. Then, in front of the benches, before
the Grotto itself, were the more grievously afflicted sufferers lying at
full length; the flagstones disappearing from view beneath this woeful
assemblage, which was like a large, stagnant pool of horror. There was an
indescribable block of vehicles, stretchers, and mattresses. Some of the
invalids in little boxes not unlike coffins had raised themselves up and
showed above the others, but the majority lay almost on a level with the
ground. There were some lying fully dressed on the check-patterned ticks
of mattresses; whilst others had been brought with their bedding, so that
only their heads and pale hands were seen outside the sheets. Few of
these pallets were clean. Some pillows of dazzling whiteness, which by a
last feeling of coquetry had been trimmed with embroidery, alone shone
out among all the filthy wretchedness of all the rest--a fearful
collection of rags, worn-out blankets, and linen splashed with stains.
And all were pushed, squeezed, piled up by chance as they came, women,
men, children, and priests, people in nightgowns beside people who were
fully attired being jumbled together in the blinding light of day.
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