that leads a hunted
man in a street into an alley. In a confusion of arms and legs, pressing
one on the other, no longer soldiers, only a mob, they throw themselves
behind the first protection that offers itself. Fracasse also runs. He
runs from the flame of a furnace door suddenly thrown open.

The Gray batteries have ceased firing; certain gunners' ears burn under
the words of inquiry as to the cause of the mistake from an artillery
commander. Dellarme's men are hugging the earth too close to cheer. A
desire to spring up and yell may be in their hearts, but they know the
danger of showing a single unnecessary inch of their craniums above the
sky-line. The sounds that escape their throats are those of a winning
team at a tug of war as diaphragms relax.

With the smoke clearing, they see twenty or thirty Grays plastered on
the slope at the point where the charge was checked. Every one of those
prostrate forms is within fatal range. Not one moves a finger; even the
living are feigning death in the hope of surviving. Among them is little
Peterkin, so faithful in forcing his refractory legs to keep pace with
his comrades. If he is always up with them they will never know what is
in his heart and call him a coward. As he has been knocked unconscious,
he has not been in the pell-mell retreat.

His first stabbing thought on coming to was that he must be dead; but,
no; he was opening his eyes sticky with dust. At least, he must be
wounded! He had not power yet to move his hands in order to feel where,
and when they grew alive enough to move, what he saw in front of him
held them frigidly still. His nerves went searching from his head to his
feet and--miracle of Heaven!--found no point of pain or spot soppy with
blood. If he were really hit there was bound to be one or the other, he
knew from reading.

Between him and the faces of the Browns--yes, the actual, living,
terrible Browns--above the glint of their rifle barrels, was no obstacle
that could stop a bullet, though not more than three feet away was a
crater made by a shell burst. The black circle of every muzzle on the
crest seemed to be pointing at him. When were they going to shoot? When
was he to be executed? Would he be shot in many places and die thus? Or
would the very first bullet go through his head? Why didn't they fire?
What were they waiting for? The suspense was unbearable. The desperation
of overwhelming fear driving him in irresponsible impulse, he double