From somewhere away to the right came, as the wind served, a low, intermittent murmur like that of ocean in a storm—­like that of a distant railway train—­like that of wind among the pines—­three sounds so nearly alike that the ear, unaided by the judgment, cannot distinguish them one from another.  The eyes of the troops were drawn in that direction; the mounted officers turned their field-glasses that way.  Mingled with the sound was an irregular throbbing.  He thought it, at first, the beating of his fevered blood in his ears; next, the distant tapping of a bass drum.

“The ball is opened on the right flank,” said an officer.

Captain Graffenreid understood:  the sounds were musketry and artillery.  He nodded and tried to smile.  There was apparently nothing infectious in the smile.

Presently a light line of blue smoke-puffs broke out along the edge of the wood in front, succeeded by a crackle of rifles.  There were keen, sharp hissings in the air, terminating abruptly with a thump near by.  The man at Captain Graffenreid’s side dropped his rifle; his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly forward, falling upon his face.  Somebody shouted “Lie down!” and the dead man was hardly distinguishable from the living.  It looked as if those few rifle-shots had slain ten thousand men.  Only the field officers remained erect; their concession to the emergency consisted in dismounting and sending their horses to the shelter of the low hills immediately in rear.

Captain Graffenreid lay alongside the dead man, from beneath whose breast flowed a little rill of blood.  It had a faint, sweetish odor that sickened him.  The face was crushed into the earth and flattened.  It looked yellow already, and was repulsive.  Nothing suggested the glory of a soldier’s death nor mitigated the loathsomeness of the incident.  He could not turn his back upon the body without facing away from his company.

He fixed his eyes upon the forest, where all again was silent.  He tried to imagine what was going on there—­the lines of troops forming to attack, the guns being pushed forward by hand to the edge of the open.  He fancied he could see their black muzzles protruding from the undergrowth, ready to deliver their storm of missiles—­such missiles as the one whose shriek had so unsettled his nerves.  The distension of his eyes became painful; a mist seemed to gather before them; he could no longer see across the field, yet would not withdraw his gaze lest he see the dead man at his side.

The fire of battle was not now burning very brightly in this warrior’s soul.  From inaction had come introspection.  He sought rather to analyze his feelings than distinguish himself by courage and devotion.  The result was profoundly disappointing.  He covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud.

The hoarse murmur of battle grew more and more distinct upon the right; the murmur had, indeed, become a roar, the throbbing, a thunder.  The sounds had worked round obliquely to the front; evidently the enemy’s left was being driven back, and the propitious moment to move against the salient angle of his line would soon arrive.  The silence and mystery in front were ominous; all felt that they boded evil to the assailants.