Stransky had half risen, a new kind of savagery dawning on his features as he regained his wits.  With inverted eyes he regarded the red ends of his fingers, held in line with the bridge of his nose.  He felt of the wound again, now that he was less dizzy.  It was only a scratch and he had been knocked down like a beef in an abattoir by an unseen enemy, on whom he could not lay hands!  He glared around as if in search of the hidden antagonist.  The sergeant had crept forward to be a steadying influence to the men in their first trial, if need be, and the doctor and a hospital-corps man were dragging a wounded man out of fine without exposing their own shoulders above the crest.  Stransky rolled his eyes in and out; the tendons of his neck swelled; his jaw worked as if crunching pebbles.  Deafeningly, the shrapnel jackets continued to crack with “ukung-s-sh—­ukung-s-sh” as the swift breath of the shrapnel missiles spread.

“Give it to ’em!  Give it to ’em!” Grandfather Fragini cried, his old voice a quavering bird note in the pandemonium.  “My, but they do come fast!” he gasped.

Yes, a trifle faster than in your day, grandfather, when a gun of the horse-artillery had to be relaid after the recoil, which is now taken up by an oil chamber, while the gunner on his seat behind the breech keeps the sight steady on the target.  The guns of one battery of that Gray regiment of artillery, each firing six fourteen-pound shells a minute methodically, every shell loaded with nearly two hundred projectiles, were giving their undivided attention to the knoll.

How long could his company endure this?  Dellarme might well ask.  He knew that he would not be expected to withdraw yet.  With a sense of relief he saw Fracasse’s men drop for cover at the base of the knoll and then, expectation fulfilled, he realized that rifle-fire now reinforced the enemy’s shell fire.  His duty was to remain while he could hold his men, and a feeling toward them such as he had never felt before, which was love, sprang full-fledged into his heart as he saw how steadily they kept up their fusillade.

The sergeant, who now had time to think of Stransky, was seized with a spasm of retributive rage.  He drew his revolver determinedly.

“You brought this on!  I’ll do for you!” he cried, turning toward the spot where he had left Stransky, only to lower his revolver in amazement as he saw Stransky, eager in response to a new passion, spring forward into place and pick up his rifle.

“If you will not have it my way, take it yours!” said the best shot in the company, as he began firing with resolute coolness.

“They have a lot of men down,” said Dellarme, his glasses showing the many prostrate figures on the wheat stubble.  “Steady! steady!  We have plenty of batteries back in the hills.  One will be in action soon.”

But would one?  He understood that with their smokeless powder the Gray guns could be located only by their flashes, which would not be visible unless the refraction of light were favorable.  Then “thur-eesh—­thur-eesh” above every other sound in a long wail!  No man ever forgets the first crack of a shrapnel at close quarters, the first bullet breath on his cheek, or the first supporting shell from his side in flight that passes above him.