Nothing could happen to them now—­until they were sound again and the order came to go out and fling themselves again under the wheels.  The doctor on duty for the night, coat off, was stretched on his sofa peacefully reading under a green lamp.  And, as I went down-stairs past the three long wards, the only sign of life was in a little circle of light cast by a single lamp over the bed of one of the new patients, lighting up the upturned profile of a man and the fair hair of the young night nurse bending over him and silently changing the cloths on his chest.

We dined late that evening on an open balcony at the top of the house.  People in Vienna and Budapest like to eat and drink in the open air.  Below us lay the dark velvet of the park, with an occasional lamp, and beyond, over the roofs of Pest, the lights of Buda across the river.

Up through the trees came the voices of men singing.  I asked what this might be.  They were men, my friends explained, who had had their legs amputated.  There were fifty-eight of them, and the people who owned the big, empty garden across the street had set it aside for them to live in.  There they could sit in the sun and learn to walk on their artificial legs—­it was a sort of school for them.

I went to see it next morning—­this Garden of Legless Men.  They were scattered about under the trees on benches two by two, some with bandaged stumps, some with crutches, some with no legs at all.  They hobbled over willingly enough to have their pictures taken, although one of them muttered that he had had his taken seventy times and no one had sent him a. copy yet.  The matron gathered them about her, arranging them rather proudly so that their wounds “would show.  One looked to be quite all right—­because he had artificial legs, boots and all, below the knee.

“Come,” said the matron, “show the gentleman how you can walk.”  And the obedient man came wabbling toward us in a curious, slightly rickety progress, like one of those toys which are wound up and set going on the sidewalk.  At the matron’s suggestion he even dropped one of his canes.  He could almost stand alone, indeed, like some of the political arguments for which millions of healthy young fellows like him obediently go out to fight.

The Augusta Barracken Hospital is on the outskirts of Budapest—­a characteristic product of the war, wholesale healing for wholesale maiming—­1,000 beds and all the essentials, in what, two months before, was a vacant lot by the railroad tracks.  The buildings are long, one-story, pine barracks, just wide enough for two rows of beds with an aisle down the centre.  The space between the barracks is filled, in thrifty European fashion, with vegetable-gardens, and they are set on neat streets through which the patients can be wheeled or carried to and from the operating and dressing rooms without going up or down stairs.  Trains come in from the observation hospitals near the front, where all wounded now stay for five days until it is certain they have no contagious disease, and switch right up to the door of the receiving-room.