"My legs are cowards," said Horace, half aloud, "but I'm not. I'm going to get up."
Yet he lay there, and lay there for some time. It was fear, and he recognized it, but the cool, moist earth of the forest was very welcome. His forehead was hot and he rested it against the mulch of the fallen leaves.
Another shell buzzed in the distance.
Again the soft swish, again the loud hum and again the deafening crash, this time within the little valley of the river itself. Stones and earth flew in every direction. The boy could hear them snitch through the trees. He flattened himself closer to the ground.
With a certain tranquillity he watched the cloud of dust settling, not sure whether his inward quietness was the regaining of control or a certain numbness of the senses. Gradually he realized that it was the former. This was the fourth shell which had struck quite near him and he was still unhurt.
French Official Photograph.
The Modern Ogre Of The Forest.
Mammoth French howitzer, well camouflaged in a dense wood.
A strange sense of safety took possession of the boy. If four shells had missed him, why not forty, why not four hundred?