As though his words had conjured it up, with startling suddenness, rifle-fire broke out near by. It sounded like the crackling of dry wood in an immense bon-fire. Horace looked up eagerly and listened for the heavy booming of the artillery. None was to be heard.
"Don't they use big shells, except on forts?" he asked.
"They'll come before long," the gunner answered. "Something's going to happen. I feel it in the air."
Infantry regiments swung by, marching north, with the quick, French step.
Though late in the afternoon, the sun was hot, the air sultry. The men were tired, grim, and silent. The faces were young, but every man had white eyebrows and either a gray beard or a gray stubbly chin. It took a moment's thought to realize that this was the effect of dust and not a regiment of old men. So thick was the dust that even the red of the breeches was absolutely hidden as the men marched on.
From over the hill, a machine-gun began its continuous death-bark.
"That means close action," said the hunchback. "They must be on us."
Horace felt his desire to see a battle slipping away quite rapidly.
"Probably action against cavalry," Croquier continued. "I hope so. We're considerably too close for an infantry attack to be comfortable."
Then, with majestic grandeur, the heavy artillery began to speak. As it opened, the crackling of the rifle-fire spread all round the horizon and the machine-guns yapped from a hundred points ahead. But, over all, the great guns boomed. It was as though, in the middle of a fight between terriers, two lions had sprung into the arena and deafened all other noise with their roars.