“But finally it was agreed to let a dozen from either side go out without arms,” the barber’s son concluded.

“I heard there was great complaint from the women,” went on the judge’s son.  “Women aren’t like what they were in the last war.  They want to know what has become of their men-folk.  They have been gathering in crowds and making trouble for the police.  One of the old reservists was telling me of talk of an army of women marching to the front to learn the truth of the situation.”

“If you don’t stop leaning on me I’ll give you a punch you’ll remember!” exclaimed Pilzer as he rammed his elbow into the old reservist’s ribs.

“I beg pardon!  It was because I am tired and sort of blank-minded,” the old reservist explained.

“You brute!” snapped the banker’s son to Pilzer.

“Mallin thrashed you once and I’ve done it once.  On my word, I’ve a mind to again!”

“No, you don’t!  No, you can’t!  And this time your boxing tricks will do you no good.  I’ll finish you!”

The two had sprung to their feet with hectic energy:  Pilzer’s liver patch a mottled purple in the midst of his curly red beard, his head lowered in front of his short, thick neck as before a spring, and the banker’s son, lighter and quicker, awaiting the attack.  Some of the others half rose, while the rest looked on in curiosity mixed with indifference.

“I’ll call the captain!” piped Peterkin.

The judge’s son stopped Peterkin and put a hand on either of the adversaries’ shoulders.

“Can’t we get enough fighting from the Browns without fighting each other?” he asked.

The banker’s son and Pilzer dropped back in their places, in the reaction of men who had spent their strength in defiance.

“The thick of it last night, I heard, was still at Engadir, where Westerling is determined to break through,” the judge’s son proceeded.  “At one point they sent in a regiment with a regiment covering it from the rear, and the fellows ahead were told that they wouldn’t be allowed to come back alive—­just what occurred at Port Arthur, you know—­so they had better take the position.”

“What happened?” asked the very tired voice.

“Those who reached the enemy’s works alive were taken prisoner.”

Further talk was interrupted by a volume of voices singing, which seemed to issue from a cellar not far away.  It had the swell of a hymn of resolute purpose.

“The Browns’ song—­something new since you were with us,” explained the barber’s son to the judge’s son.

“Yes, their whole line sung it in the silence of dawn following last night’s repulse,” said the banker’s son.  “Notice the hammer beat to it and then the earth rumble, like pounding nails in a coffin box and rattling the earth on top of the box after it is lowered.”

“Yes, and I get the words,” said the judge’s son, who knew the language of the Browns:  “’God with us, not to take what is theirs, but to keep what is ours!  God with us!’”