But Grandfather Fragini’s cheeks had a hectic flush; his heart was beating with the exhilaration of an old war-horse.  Looking over Tom’s shoulder, he squinted into the distance, his underlip quivering against his toothless gums.

“My eyesight’s kind of uncertain,” he said.  “Can you see ’em?”

“There by the white posts—­those lying figures!” said Tom.  “They’re almost the color of the stubble.”

“So I do, the land-sharks!  Down on their bellies, too!  No flag, either!  But that ain’t no reason why we shouldn’t have a flag.  It ought to be waving at ’em in defiance right over our heads!”

“Flags draw fire.  They let the enemy know where you are,’ Tom explained.

“The Hussars didn’t bother about that.  We let out a yell and went after ’em!” growled grandfather.  “Appears to me the fighting these days is grovelling in the dirt and taking care nobody don’t get hurt!”

“Oh, there’ll be enough hurt—­don’t you worry about that!” said a voice from the line.

“Good thing an old fellow who’s been under fire is along to stiffen you rookies!” replied grandfather tartly.  “You’ll be all right once you get going.  You’ll settle down to be real soldiers yet.  And I’d like to hear a little more cussing.  How the Hussars used to cuss!  Too much reading and writing nowadays.  It makes men too ladylike.”

By this time he had once more attracted the captain’s attention.

“Grandfather Fragini, you must drop back—­you must!  If you don’t, I’ll have you carried back!” called Dellarme, sparing the old man only a glance from his concentrated observation on the front.

When he looked again at the enemy any thought of carrying out his threat vanished, for the minute had come when all his training was to be put to a test.  The figures on the other side of the white posts were rising.  He was to prove by the way he directed a company of infantry in action whether or not he was worthy of his captain’s rank.  He breathed one of those unspoken prayers that are made to the god of one’s own efficient, conscientious responsibility to duty.  The words of it were:  “May I keep my head as if I were at drill!” Then he smiled cheerily.  In order that he might watch how each man used his rifle, he drew back of the line, his slim body erect as he rested on one knee, his head level with the other heads while he fingered his whistle.  His lieutenants followed his example even to the detail of his cheery smile.  There was a slight stirring of heads and arms as eyes drew beads on human targets.  The instant that Eugene Aronson sprang over the white post a blast from Dellarme’s whistle began the war.

It was a signal, too, for Stransky to play the part he had planned; to make the speech of his life.  His six feet of stature shot to its feet with a Jack-in-the-box abruptness, under the impulse of a mighty and reckless passion.

“Men, stop firing!” he cried thunderously.  “Stop firing on your brothers!  Like you, they are only the pawns of the ruling class, who keep us all pawns in order that they may have champagne and caviare.  Comrades, I’ll lead you!  Comrades, we’ll take a white flag and go down to meet our comrades and we’ll find that they think as we do!  I’ll lead you!”