Certainly there would be no hostilities on that day.
"Nine," they said under their breath.
"Ten!" "Eleven!" "Twelve!" Then they listened, as the echo of the twelfth Southern shot died away on the stream, and no sound came after it.

Twenty-four shots had been fired, twelve by each army, conveying Christmas good wishes, and the group in the house went back to their dinner.

Some glasses had been found, and there was a thimbleful of wine, enough for everyone.

The black cake was cut, and at a word from Colonel Talbot all rose and drank a toast to the mothers and wives and sweethearts and sisters they had left behind them.
Then the twilight thickened rapidly and the winter night came down upon them, hiding the ruined town, the blackened walls, the muddy streets and the icicles hanging from scorched timbers.
Caesar Moncrieffe washed all the dishes--those left in the house had been sufficient for their purpose--wiped them carefully, and returned them to the cupboard.

Then he announced that he must go.
"Come now, Santa Claus," said Happy Tom, "you must stay here.