John could no longer hear the words of his comrades.  He saw dimly through the whitish smoke in front, but he continued to fire.  Once he leaped aside to let a wounded and riderless horse gallop past, and thrice he sprang over the bodies of the dead.

The infantry were advancing now, driving the cavalry before them, and the French were able to bring their lighter field guns into action.  John heard the rapid crashes, and he saw the line of cavalry drawing back.  He, too, was shouting with triumph, although nobody heard him.  But all the Strangers were filled with fiery zeal.  Without orders they rushed forward, driving the horsemen yet further.  John saw through the whitish mist a fierce face and a powerful arm swinging aloft a saber.

He recognized von Boehlen and von Boehlen recognized him.  Shouting, the Prussian urged his horse at him and struck him with the saber.  John, under impulse, dropped to his knees, and the heavy blade whistled above him.  But something else struck him on the head and he fell senseless to the earth.

CHAPTER XII

JULIE LANNES

John Scott came slowly out of the darkness and hovered for a while between dusk and light.  It was not an unpleasant world in which he lingered.  It seemed full of rest and peace.  His mind and body were relaxed, and there was no urgent call for him to march and to fight.  The insistent drumming of the great guns which could play upon the nervous system until it was wholly out of tune was gone.  The only sound he heard was that of a voice, a fresh young voice, singing a French song in a tone low and soft.  He had always liked these little love songs of the kind that were sung in a subdued way.  They were pathetic and pure as a rose leaf.

He might have opened his eyes and looked for the singer, but he did not.  The twilight region between sleep and consciousness was too pleasant.  He had no responsibilities, nothing to do.  He had a dim memory that he had belonged to an army, that it was his business to try to kill some one, and to try to keep from getting killed, but all that was gone now.  He could lie there, without pain of body or anxiety of mind, and let vague but bright visions pass through his soul.

His eyes still closed, he listened to the voice.  It was very low, scarcely more than a murmur, yet it was thrillingly sweet.  It might not be a human voice, after all, just the distant note of a bird in the forest, or the murmur of a brave little stream, or a summer wind among green leaves.

He moved a little and became conscious that he was not going back into that winter region of dusk.  His soul instead was steadily moving toward the light.  The beat of his heart grew normal, and then memory in a full tide rushed upon him.  He saw the great cavalry battle with all its red turmoil, the savage swing of von Boehlen’s saber and himself drifting out into the darkness.