Some of them could go no farther, but fell there and lay silent.

Others passed back into the fields where droned the protesting bees, or where here and there a wide tree offered shelter.
Suddenly all the summer air was filled with anguish and horror.

Was this, then, the War?
And now there appeared yet other figures among the trees, a straggling, broken line, which fell back, halted, stood and fired always calmly, coolly, at some unseen thing in front of them.

But this line resolved itself into individuals, who came back to the edge of the wood, methodically picking their way through the abattis, climbing the intervening fences, and finally clambering into the earthworks to take their places for the final stand.

They spoke with grinning respect of that which was out there ahead, coming on.