swamps.  Evidently the Russians had realized the impossibility of turning our flanks and were endeavoring to pierce our center by means of a vigorous frontal attack, relying upon their great superiority in numbers.  Every preparation had been made to meet the onslaught during the night.  Our trenches had been strengthened, the artillery had been brought into position, cleverly masked by means of transplanted bushes, the field in front of us had been cleared of objects obstructing the view, and the sappers had been feverishly busy constructing formidable barbed-wire entanglements and carefully measuring the shooting distances, marking the different ranges by bundles of hay or other innocent-looking objects, which were placed here and there in the field.

At nine o’clock in the morning everything was ready to receive the enemy, the men taking a short and well-deserved rest in their trenches, while we officers were called to the colonel, who acquainted us with the general situation, and, giving his orders, addressed us in a short, business-like way, appealing to our sense of duty and expressing his firm belief in our victory.  We all knew that his martial attitude and abrupt manner were a mask to hide his inner self, full of throbbing emotion and tender solicitude for his subordinates, and we returned to our trenches deeply moved.

The camp was absolutely quiet, the only movements noticeable being around the field kitchens in the rear, which were being removed from the battle line.  A half hour later any casual observer, glancing over the deserted fields might have laughed at the intimation that the earth around him was harboring thousands of men armed to their teeth, and that pandemonium of hell would break loose within an hour.  Barely a sound was audible, and a hush of expectancy descended upon us.  I looked around at my men in the trench; some were quietly asleep, some writing letters, others conversed in subdued and hushed tones.  Every face I saw bore the unmistakable stamp of the feeling so characteristic of the last hour before a battle,—­that curious mixture of solemn dignity, grave responsibility, and suppressed emotion, with an undercurrent of sad resignation.  They were pondering over their possible fate, or perhaps dreaming of their dear ones at home.

By and by even the little conversation ceased, and they sat quite silent, waiting and waiting, perhaps awed by their own silence.  Sometimes one would bravely try to crack a joke, and they laughed, but it sounded strained.  They were plainly nervous, these brave men that fought like lions in the open when led to an attack, heedless of danger and destruction.  They felt under a cloud in the security of the trenches, and they were conscious of it and ashamed.  Sometimes my faithful orderly would turn his eye on me, mute, as if in quest of an explanation of his own feeling.  Poor dear unsophisticated boy!  I was as nervous as they all were, although trying my best to look unconcerned; but I knew that the hush that hovered around us like a dark cloud would give way like magic to wild enthusiasm as soon as the first shot broke the spell and the exultation of the battle took hold of us all.