An officer came running toward them from the tower side, across the cleared space.  He waved his kepi several times that they might see him better.  Lacour trembled for him.  The enemy might descry him; he was simply making a target of himself by cutting across that open space in order to reach them the sooner. . . .  And he trembled still more as he came nearer. . . .  It was Rene!

His hands returned with some astonishment the strong, muscular grasp.  He noticed that the outlines of his son’s face were more pronounced, and darkened with the tan of camp life.  An air of resolution, of confidence in his own powers, appeared to emanate from his person.  Six months of intense life had transformed him.  He was the same but broader-chested and more stalwart.  The gentle and sweet features of his mother were lost under the virile mask. . . .  Lacour recognized with pride that he now resembled himself.

After greetings had been exchanged, Rene paid more attention to Don Marcelo than to his father, because he reminded him of Chichi.  He inquired after her, wishing to know all the details of her life, in spite of their ardent and constant correspondence.

The senator, meanwhile, still under the influence of his recent emotion, had adopted a somewhat oratorical air toward his son.  He forthwith improvised a fragment of discourse in honor of that soldier of the Republic bearing the glorious name of Lacour, deeming this an opportune time to make known to these professional soldiers the lofty lineage of his family.

“Do your duty, my son.  The Lacours inherit warrior traditions.  Remember our ancestor, the Deputy of the Convention who covered himself with glory in the defense of Mayence!”

While he was discoursing, they had started forward, doubling a point of the greenwood in order to get behind the cannons.

Here the racket was less violent.  The great engines, after each discharge, were letting escape through the rear chambers little clouds of smoke like those from a pipe.  The sergeants were dictating numbers, communicated in a low voice by another gunner who had a telephone receiver at his ear.  The workmen around the cannon were obeying silently.  They would touch a little wheel and the monster would raise its grey snout, moving it from side to side with the intelligent expression and agility of an elephant’s trunk.  At the foot of the nearest piece, stood the operator, rod in hand, and with impassive face.  He must be deaf, yet his facial inertia was stamped with a certain authority.  For him, life was no more than a series of shots and detonations.  He knew his importance.  He was the servant of the tempest, the guardian of the thunderbolt.

“Fire!” shouted the sergeant.

And the thunder broke forth in fury.  Everything appeared to be trembling, but the two visitors were by this time so accustomed to the din that the present uproar seemed but a secondary affair.