At the ten minutes' halt which succeeded the first hour's march,
my Jersey friend spoke to me again. "Aren't there stars!" he said,
turning his face to the heavens and gripping his rifle tightly as if
for support. His wide open eyes seemed to have grown in size, and were
full of an expression I had never seen in them before. "I like the
stars," he remarked, "they're so wonderful. And to think that men are
killing each other now, this very minute!" He clanked the butt of his
gun on the ground and toyed with the handle of his sword.
Hour after hour passed by; under the light of the moon the country
looked beautiful; every pond showed a brilliant face to the heavens,
light mists seemed to hover over every farmhouse and cottage; light
winds swept through the telegraph wires; only the woods looked dark,
and there the trees seemed to be hugging the darkness around them.
On our way back a sharp shower, charged with a penetrating cold, fell.
The waterproof ground-sheets were unrolled, and we tied them over our
shoulders. When the rain passed, the water falling in drops from our
equipment glittered so brightly that it put the polished swords and
brilliant rifle butt-plates to shame.
We stole into the town at midnight, when nearly all the inhabitants
were abed. With arms at the trail, we marched along, throwing off
company after company, at the streets where they billeted. The
battalion dwindled down slowly; my party came to a halt, and the order
"Dismiss!" was given, and we went to our billets.
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