“That is ours!” called Dellarme.

“Ours!” shouted the sergeant.

“Ours!” sang the thought of every one of the men.

Over the Gray batteries on the plain an explosive ball of smoke hung in the still air; then another beside it.

“Thur-eesh—­thur-eesh—­thur-eesh,” the screaming overhead became a gale that built a cloud of blue smoke over the offending Gray batteries—­beautiful, soft blue smoke from which a spray of steel descended.  There was no spotting the flashes of the Browns’ guns in order to reply to them, for they were under the cover of a hill, using indirect aim as nicely and accurately as In firing pointblank.  The gunners of the Gray batteries could not go on with their work under such a hail-storm, they were checkmated.  They stopped firing and began moving to a new position, where their commander hoped to remain undiscovered long enough to support the 128th by loosing his lightnings against the defenders at the critical moment of the next charge, which would be made as soon as Fracasse’s men had been reinforced.

There was an end to the concussions and the thrashing of the air around Dellarme’s men, and they had the relief of a breaking abscess in the ear.  But they became more conscious of the spits of dust in front of their faces and the passing whistles of bullets.  In return, they made the sections of Gray infantry in reserve rushing across the levels, leave many gray lumps behind.  But Fracasse’s men at the foot of the slope poured in a heavier and still heavier fire.

“Down there’s where we need the shells now!” spoke the thought of Dellarme’s men, which he had anticipated by a word to the signal corporal, who waved his flag one—­two—­three—­four—­five times.  Come on, now, with more of your special brand of death, fire-control officer!  Your own head is above the sky-line, though your guns are hidden.  Five hundred yards beyond the knoll is the range!  Come on!

He came with a burst of screams so low in flight that they seemed to brush the back of the men’s necks with a hair broom at the rate of a thousand feet a second.  Having watched the result, Dellarme turned with a confirmatory gesture, which the corporal translated into the wigwag of “Correct!” The shrapnel smoke hanging over Fracasse’s men appeared a heavenly blue to Dellarme’s men.

“They are going to start for us soon!  Oh, but we’ll get a lot of them!” whispered Stransky gleefully to his rifle.

Dellarme glanced again toward the colonel’s station.  No sign of the retiring flag.  He was glad of that.  He did not want to fall back in face of a charge; to have his men silhouetted in the valley as they retreated.  And the Grays would not endure this shower-bath long without going one way or the other.  He gave the order to fix bayonets, and hardly was it obeyed when he saw flashes of steel through the shrapnel smoke as the Grays fixed theirs.  The Grays had five hundred yards to go; the Browns had the time that it takes running men to cover the distance in which to stop the Grays.