* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, on the hilltop, the watcher has again sat down. Now there is nothing to watch in the sky, he sets himself to study the enemy's guns, amongst which he seems vaguely to discover some movement. Can they have suspected anything? As he sweeps his glass carelessly across the gray cloud toward its terrestrial object, something—a midge probably—in the upper corner of the object-glass catches his eye. He puts down the glass and rubs the lens with his handkerchief. He looks again. The midge is still there. He looks directly at it—it is a collection of midges. Good God! These are no midges—they are a covey of war kites high up in the sky! Yes, and there is the observer hanging some distance below, who must have seen all!
By this time two or three guns have turned out of the lane and are unlimbering.
He rises and tries to shout—it is too late.
* * * * * * *
"Now they're turning out of the road, through three or four gaps, to come into action—now two guns have left the road—hullo!—are you there?" continues the thin metallic voice down the wire.
"Yes."
"Let them have it."
The Commander, from his lowly position, looks up and nods to a signaller standing up on a mound; the latter drops his flag.
The air is split by the noise of the whole line of guns as they open rapid fire. It is like the report of one piece prolonged into a continuous long note.