Every time they maneuver the breeches, their chests and arms are scorched by a tawny reflection.

They are like the implacable workers of a blast furnace; the breeches are reddened by the heat of the explosions, the steel of the guns is on fire in the evening.
For some minutes now they have fired more slowly--as if they were becoming exhausted.

A few far-apart shots--the batteries fire no more; and now that the salvos are extinguished, we see the fire in the steel go out.
In the abysmal silence we hear a gunner groan:-- "There's no more shell." The shadow of twilight resumes its place in the sky--henceforward empty.

It grows cold.

There is a mysterious and terrible mourning.
Around me, springing from the obscurity, are groans and gasps for breath, loaded backs which disappear, stupefied eyes, and the gestures of men who wipe the sweat from their foreheads.