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Page 90
"We win! we win!" cried Carstairs. "If they couldn't beat us down in the
first rush they can't beat us down at all!"
Carstairs was right. The French had broken into no panic, and, when,
infantry standing firm, pour forth the incessant and deadly stream of
death, that modern arms make possible, no cavalry can live before them.
Yet the Germans charged again and again into the hurricane of fire and
steel. The tumult of the battle face to face became terrific.
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.
He opened his eyes, the battle vanished, and he saw himself lying upon a
low, wooden platform. His head rested upon a small pillow, a blanket was
under him, and another above him. Turning slowly he saw other men
wrapped in blankets like himself on the platform in a row that stretched
far to right and left. Above was a low roof, but both sides of the
structure were open.
He understood it all in a moment. He had come back to a world of battle
and wounds, and he was one of the wounded. But he listened for the soft,
musical note which he believed now, in his imaginative state, had drawn
him from the mid-region between life and death.
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