262
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
He lay quietly on his side, consumed by fever and pain. I
moved closer to take his picture, and I heard him cry softly;
"Ima . . , Ima . . . Ima"—the plaintive cry of a boy for his
mother. I took five photographs, and a strange thing happened with them. All came out blurred. It was I who had
moved. I must have been too moved to hold still. Moved and
angry. Angry is not the word. Enraged is more apt. Enraged
that a boy of eleven should have to go through life without his
right arm. What had he done? Whom had he hurt?
Above the groaning in the wards I heard another Arab
shell land near by. It struck near St. Joseph's Convent, whose
upper flo