A little while later the artillery duel subsided and finally died out abruptly, leaving a comparative calm, broken only by slow and very deliberate picket firing.
The signal men laid aside their soiled flags and began munching hardtack; Captain West came over, bringing his own rations to offer her, but she refused with a gesture, sitting there, chin propped in her palms, elbows indenting her knees.
“Are you not hungry or thirsty?” he asked.
“No.”
He had carelessly seated himself on the natural rocky parapet, spurred boots dangling over space. For one wild instant she hoped he might slip and fall headlong—and his blood be upon the hands of his Maker.
Sitting near one another they remained silent, restless-eyed, brooding above the battle-scarred world. As he rose to go he spoke once or twice to her with that haunting softness of voice which had begun to torture her; but her replies were very brief; and he said nothing more.
At intervals during the afternoon orderlies came to the hill; one or two general officers and their staffs arrived for brief consultations, and departed at a sharp gallop down hill.
About three o’clock there came an unexpected roar of artillery from the Union left; minute by minute the racket swelled as battery after battery joined in the din.
Behind her the signal flags were fluttering wildly once more; a priest, standing near her, turned nodding:
“Our boys will be going in before sundown,” he said quietly.