road to Philippopolis was crowded with wounded and refugees.  Peasant families struggled along with all their household goods piled upon a single cart.  Ammunition wagons and droves of cattle, rushing along against the tide of human beings, toward the distant bivouacs, made the confusion hopeless.  Night was fast coming on, and in company with a Cossack, who was, like myself, seeking the headquarters of General Gourko, I made my way through the tangle of men, beasts, and wagons toward the town.  It was one of those chill, wet days of winter when there is little comfort away from a blazing fire, and when good shelter for the night is an absolute necessity.  The drizzle had drenched my garments, and the snow-mud had soaked my boots.  Sharp gusts of piercing wind drove the cold mist along, and as the temperature fell in the late afternoon the slush of the roads began to stiffen, and the fog froze where it gathered.  Every motion of the limbs seemed to expose some unprotected part of the body to the cold and wet.  No amount of exercise that was possible with stiffened limbs and in wet garments would warm the blood.  Leading my horse, I splashed along, holding my arms away from my body, and only moving my benumbed fingers to wipe the chill drip from my face.  It was weather to take the courage out of the strongest man, and the sight of the soaked and shivering wounded, packed in the jolting carts or limping through the mud, gave me, hardened as I was, a painful contraction of the heart.  The best I could do was to lift upon my worn-out horse one brave young fellow who was hobbling along with a bandaged leg.  Followed by the Cossack, whose horse bore a similar burden, I hurried along, hoping to get under cover before dark.  At the entrance to the town numerous camp-fires burned in the bivouacs of the refugees, who were huddled together in the shelter of their wagons, trying to warm themselves in the smoke of the wet fuel.  I could see the wounded, as they were jolted past in the heavy carts, look longingly at the kettles of boiling maize which made the evening meal of the houseless natives.

Inside the town the wounded and the refugees were still more miserable than those we had passed on the way.  Loaded carts blocked the streets.  Every house was occupied, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with Russian soldiers, who looked wretched enough in their dripping overcoats, as they stamped their rag-swathed feet.  At the corner, in front of the great Khan, motley groups of Greeks, Bulgarians, and Russians were gathered, listlessly watching the line of hobbling wounded as they turned the corner to find their way among the carts, up the hill to the hospital, near the Konak.  By the time I reached the Khan the Cossack who accompanied me had fallen behind in the confusion, and without waiting for him I pushed along, wading in the gutter, dragging my horse by the bridle.  Half way up the hill I saw a crowd of natives watching with curiosity two Russian guardsmen and a Turkish prisoner.  The latter was evidently exhausted, for he was crouching in the freezing mud of the street.  Presently the soldiers shook him roughly and raised him forcibly to his feet, and half supporting him between them they moved slowly along, the Turk balancing on his stiffened legs and swinging from side to side.