For some minutes now they have fired more slowly—­as if they were becoming exhausted.  A few far-apart shots—­the batteries fire no more; and now that the salvos are extinguished, we see the fire in the steel go out.

In the abysmal silence we hear a gunner groan:—­

“There’s no more shell.”

The shadow of twilight resumes its place in the sky—­henceforward empty.  It grows cold.  There is a mysterious and terrible mourning.  Around me, springing from the obscurity, are groans and gasps for breath, loaded backs which disappear, stupefied eyes, and the gestures of men who wipe the sweat from their foreheads.  The order to retire is repeated, in a tone that grips us—­one would call it a cry of distress.  There is a confused and dejected trampling; and then we descend, we go away the way we came, and the host follows itself heavily and makes more steps into the gulf.

* * * * * *

When we have gone again down the slope of the hill, we find ourselves once more in the bottom of a valley, for another height begins.  Before ascending it, we stop to take breath, but ready to set off again should the flood-tide appear on the ridge yonder.  We find ourselves in the middle of grassy expanses, without trenches or defense, and we are astonished not to see the supports.  We are in the midst of a sort of absence.

We sit down here and there; and some one with his forehead bowed almost to his knees, translating the common thought, says:—­

“It’s none of our fault.”

Our lieutenant goes up to the man, puts his hand on his shoulder, and says, gently:—­

“No, my lads, it’s none of your fault.”

Just then some sections join us who say, “We’re the rearguard.”  And some add that the two batteries of 75’s up yonder are already captured.  A whistle rings out—­“Come, march!”

We continue the retreat.  There are two battalions of us in all—­no soldier in front of us; no French soldier behind us.  I have neighbors who are unknown to me, motley men, routed and stupefied, artillery and engineers; unknown men who come and go away, who seem to be born and seem to die.

At one time we get a glimpse of some confusion in the orders from above.  A Staff officer, issuing from no one knew where, throws himself in front of us, bars our way, and questions us in a tragic voice:—­

“What are you miserable men doing?  Are you running away?  Forward in the name of France!  I call upon you to return.  Forward!”

The soldiers, who would never have thought of retiring without orders, are stunned, and can make nothing of it.

“We’re going back because they told us to go back.”

But they obey.  They turn right about face.  Some of them have already begun to march forward, and they call to their comrades:—­

“Hey there!  This way, it seems!”

But the order to retire returns definitely, and we obey once more, fuming against those who do not know what they say; and the ebb carries away with it the officer who shouted amiss.