Semyonov knelt on the wooden barrier of the cart, his figure outlined square and strong.

She was kneeling behind him, her hands on his shoulders.

Her face was exultant, victorious.

She seemed to me the inspirer of that scene, to have created it, to hold it now with the authority of her gaze.
Behind her Trenchard was in shadow.
We were on the hill-top, the cannon, as it seemed, on every side of us.

We hung for a moment so, the sky flaming up to our feet.