At length, after having been on the move for about five minutes, he began climbing the slope of a low ridge, and on arriving at the top, his forces being practically exhausted, he was obliged to come to an unwilling halt.
He had withdrawn, as it were, to the edge of the zone of falling marmites; and with this knowledge the turbulence of his emotions slowly subsided and he was better able to grasp the sense of things.
"Poor Don Hale!" he panted. "I'll bet he's 'gone West'![11] How terrible!"
Making no effort to protect himself from either the wind or rain, the young chap from Maine turned, and, with eyes that twitched with excitement, gazed in the direction from whence he had come. A portion of the road lay in full view, and as each flash gleamed in the sky, he could see the motionless transports vaguely defined against the background. Column after column of ugly-looking smoke was being swept along with the wind, sometimes clearly in front of the camions, sometimes clearly on the other side. Vaguely, he thought that the Chemin de Mort never could have received a worse baptism of fire.
What was he to do? Where should he go?
Able to reason clearly for the first time since the explosion, these questions presented themselves to his mind. And to neither could he find a satisfactory answer. Of one thing he was quite certain—it would have been beyond reason for him to return to the road.
And yet, in spite of his gratitude to Providence for having spared him, he felt a curious and ill-defined feeling of dissatisfaction with himself. Had he been guilty of deserting his post?
He could answer the question firmly with a "No!"
Had he acted with any degree of bravery?
He could also answer that question with a "No!"