The village of Pastrengo has given its name to the day.  It was a day of intense heat coming after heavy rains.  The arid soil steamed; the white powder-smoke curled in long horizontal columns across the hazy ring of the fight.  Seen from a distance it was like a huge downy ball, kicked this way and that between the cypresses by invisible giants.  A pair of eager-eyed women gazing on a battle-field for the first time could but ask themselves in bewilderment whether the fate of countries were verily settled in such a fashion.  Far in the rear, Vittoria and Laura heard the cannon-shots; a sullen dull sound, as of a mallet striking upon rotten timber.  They drove at speed.  The great thumps became varied by musketry volleys, that were like blocks of rockboulder tumbled in the roll of a mountain torrent.  These, then, were the voices of Italy and Austria speaking the devilish tongue of the final alternative.  Cannon, rockets, musketry, and now the run of drums, now the ring of bugles, now the tramp of horses, and the field was like a landslip.  A joyful bright black death-wine seemed to pour from the bugles all about.  The women strained their senses to hear and see; they could realize nothing of a reality so absolute; their feelings were shattered, and crowded over them in patches;—­horror, glory, panic, hope, shifted lights within their bosoms.  The fascination and repulsion of the image of Force divided them.  They feared; they were prostrate; they sprang in praise.  The image of Force was god and devil to their souls.  They strove to understand why the field was marked with blocks of men who made a plume of vapour here, and hurried thither.  The action of their intellects resolved to a blank marvel at seeing an imminent thing—­an interrogation to almighty heaven treated with method, not with fury streaming forward.  Cleave the opposing ranks!  Cry to God for fire?  Cut them through!  They had come to see the Song of Deborah performed before their eyes, and they witnessed only a battle.  Blocks of infantry gathered densely, thinned to a line, wheeled in column, marched:  blocks of cavalry changed posts:  artillery bellowed from one spot and quickly selected another.  Infantry advanced in the wake of tiny smokepuffs, halted, advanced again, rattled files of shots, became struck into knots, faced half about as from a blow of the back of a hand, retired orderly.  Cavalry curved like a flickering scimetar in their rear; artillery plodded to its further station.  Innumerable tiny smoke-puffs then preceded a fresh advance of infantry.  The enemy were on the hills and looked mightier, for they were revealed among red flashes of their guns, and stood partly visible above clouds of hostile smoke and through clouds of their own, which grasped viscously by the skirts of the hills.  Yet it seemed a strife of insects, until, one by one, soldiers who had gone into yonder white pit for the bloody kiss of death, and had got it on their faces, were borne by Vittoria and Laura knelt in this horrid stream of mortal anguish to give succour from their stores in the carriage.  Their natural emotions were distraught.  They welcomed the sight of suffering thankfully, for the poor blotted faces were so glad at sight of them.  Torture was their key to the reading of the battle.  They gazed on the field no longer, but let the roaring wave of combat wash up to them what it would.