"I certainly like that song," said Stransky. Well he might. It had made him famous throughout the nation. "There's Jehovah and brimstone in it. Now we'll have our own."
"Our own" was also of Stransky's composition and about Dellarme; for Stransky, child of the highways and byways, of dark, tragic alleys and sunny fields, had music in him, the music of the people. The skin on his high cheek-bones was drawn tighter than before, further exaggerating the size of his nose, and the deeper set of his eyes gave their cross a more marked character. He carried on the spirit of Dellarme in the company in his own fashion. The survivors among his men were as lean and dirty as Fracasse's, but, never having expected to reach the enemy's capital, war had brought few illusions. They had known sleepless vigils, but not much digging since they had fallen back on the main line into the fortifications which, with all resources at command, the engineers had built before the war. And the Browns still held the range! The principal fortifications of Engadir and every other vital point of the main line was theirs. All that the enemy had gained in his latest attack were a few minor positions.
"But we're always losing positions!" complained one of the men. "Little by little they are getting possession."
"They say the offensive always wins," said another.
"Five against three! They count on numbers," said Lieutenant Tom Fragini.
"There you go, Tom! Any other pessimists or anarchists want to be heard?" called out Stransky. "Just how long, at the present rate, will it take them to get the whole range? There's a limit to the number of even five millions."
"Yes, but if they ever break through in one place and get their guns up—"
"As you've said before, Tom!"
"As we want to keep saying—as we want to keep fighting our damnedest to make sure they won't," Tom explained.
"Yes, that's it!" declared a chorus.