Upon the brow of that hill of doom, hiding the sky-line for perhaps 400 yards to the right of the now obscured poplar, appears a crown of magenta-coloured smoke, out of which a succession of light flashes sparkle.
* * * * * * *
By those up on that hill is heard a faint roar in the distance, followed by a whistling sound, and the air above—all round—is full of crackling reports, shouts, oaths, and groans. Bullets tear the earth on all sides, and the steel gun-shields ring out like gongs under their blows. Everything except the dreadful sounds becomes blurred in the puffs of acrid, tinted smoke which the wind drives across the hilltop.
* * * * * * *
In a minute, automatically, the fire ceases—a long period for quick-firing guns which pour out fifteen shells a minute, and much ammunition, but this is an opportunity given by the gods.
The Commander puts the telephone to his lips:
"Hullo!—is that enough?"
"Wait a minute. My God! It is."
V
Not one return shot has been fired.