g again in the
grain-field, that looked like a tiny square of pale gilt on the
hill-top.

Suddenly a spot of white vapour appeared over the spire of
Saarbrueck, then another, then three together, little round clouds
that hung motionless, wavered, split, and disappeared in the
sunshine, only to be followed by more round cloud clots. A moment
later the dull mutter of cannon disturbed the morning air,
distant rumblings and faint shocks that seemed to come from an
infinite distance.

Jack handed back the binoculars and opened his own field-glasses
in silence. Neither spoke, but they instinctively leaned forward,
side by side, sweeping the panorama with slow, methodical
movements, glasses firmly levelled. And now, in the valley below,
the long roads grew black with moving columns of cavalry and
artillery; the fields on either side were alive with infantry,
dim red squares and oblongs, creeping across the landscape
towards that line of silver, the Saar.

"It's a flank movement on Wissembourg," said Jack, suddenly; "or
are they swinging around to take Saint-Johann from the north?"

"Watch Saarbrueck," muttered Georges between his teeth.

The slow seconds crept into minutes, the minutes into hours, as
they waited there, fascinated. Already the sharper rattle of
musketry broke out on the hills south of the Saar, and the
projectiles fell fast in the little river, beyond which the
single spire of Saarbrueck rose, capped with the smoke of
exploding shells.

Jack sat sketching in a canvas-covered book, raising his brown
eyes from time to time, or writing on a pad laid flat on his
saddle-pommel.

The two young fellows conversed in low tones, laughing quietly or
smoking in absorbed silence, and even their subdued voices were
louder than the roll of the distant cannonade.

Suddenly the wind changed and their ears were filled with the
hollow boom of cannon. And now, nearer than they could have
believed, the crash of volley firing mingled with the whirring
crackle of gatlings and the spattering rattle of Montigny
mitrailleuses from the Guard artillery.

"Fichtre!" said Georges, with a shrug, "not only dancing, but
music! What are you sketching, Jack? Let me see. Hm! Pretty
good--for you. You've got Forbach too near, though. I wonder what
the Emperor is doing. It seems too bad to drag that sick child of
his out to see a lot of men fall over dead. Poor little Lulu!"

"Kicking, kicking ever!" murmured Jack; "the same fierce