In the deep, battle-filled silence the priest raised up his hands; three regiments sank to their knees as a single man, and the Special Messenger and her prisoner knelt with them.
“Dominus noster Jesus Christus vos absolvat, et ego, auctoritate ipius, vos absolvo ab omvir vinculo——”
The thunder of the guns drowned the priest’s voice for a moment, then it sounded again, firm and clear:
“Absolve vos a peccatis——”
The roar of battle blotted out the words; then again they rang out:
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!... Amen.”
The officers had remounted now, their horses plunging in the smoke; the flags were moving forward; rivers of bayonets flowed out into the maelstrom where the red lightning played incessantly. Then from their front crashed out the first volley of the Irish Brigade.
“Forward! Forward!” shouted their officers. Men were falling everywhere; a dying horse kicked a whole file into confusion. Suddenly a shell fell in their midst, another, another, tearing fiery right of way.
The Special Messenger, on her knees in the smoke, looked up and around as a priest bent above her.
“Child,” he said, “what are you doing here?” And then his worn gaze fell on the dead man who lay in the grass staring skyward through his broken eyeglasses with pleasant, sightless eyes.