"You see, something had to be done about the dead between the redoubts,"

explained the barber's son, "though the officers on both sides were against it."

"Naturally. It afforded opportunities for observation," put in Peterkin, repeating the colonel's words.

"But finally it was agreed to let a dozen from either side go out without arms," the barber's son concluded.

"I heard there was great complaint from the women," went on the judge's son. "Women aren't like what they were in the last war. They want to know what has become of their men-folk. They have been gathering in crowds and making trouble for the police. One of the old reservists was telling me of talk of an army of women marching to the front to learn the truth of the situation."

"If you don't stop leaning on me I'll give you a punch you'll remember!"

exclaimed Pilzer as he rammed his elbow into the old reservist's ribs.

"I beg pardon! It was because I am tired and sort of blank-minded," the old reservist explained.

"You brute!" snapped the banker's son to Pilzer.

"Mallin thrashed you once and I've done it once. On my word, I've a mind to again!"

"No, you don't! No, you can't! And this time your boxing tricks will do you no good. I'll finish you!"

The two had sprung to their feet with hectic energy: Pilzer's liver patch a mottled purple in the midst of his curly red beard, his head lowered in front of his short, thick neck as before a spring, and the banker's son, lighter and quicker, awaiting the attack. Some of the others half rose, while the rest looked on in curiosity mixed with indifference.

"I'll call the captain!" piped Peterkin.

The judge's son stopped Peterkin and put a hand on either of the adversaries' shoulders.

"Can't we get enough fighting from the Browns without fighting each other?" he asked.

The banker's son and Pilzer dropped back in their places, in the reaction of men who had spent their strength in defiance.

"The thick of it last night, I heard, was still at Engadir, where Westerling is determined to break through," the judge's son proceeded.

"At one point they sent in a regiment with a regiment covering it from the rear, and the fellows ahead were told that they wouldn't be allowed to come back alive--just what occurred at Port Arthur, you know--so they had better take the position."

"What happened?" asked the very tired voice.

"Those who reached the enemy's works alive were taken prisoner."

Further talk was interrupted by a volume of voices singing, which seemed to issue from a cellar not far away. It had the swell of a hymn of resolute purpose.

"The Browns' song--something new since you were with us," explained the barber's son to the judge's son.

"Yes, their whole line sung it in the silence of dawn following last night's repulse," said the banker's son. "Notice the hammer beat to it and then the earth rumble, like pounding nails in a coffin box and rattling the earth on top of the box after it is lowered."

"Yes, and I get the words," said the judge's son, who knew the language of the Browns: "'G.o.d with us, not to take what is theirs, but to keep what is ours! G.o.d with us!'"

"They say some private--Stransky, I believe his name is--composed the words from a saying of Partow, their chief of staff, and it spread," put in the very tired voice.

"As it would at a time of high pressure like this, when all humanity's nerves form an electric circuit," said the judge's son. "'G.o.d with us!'

What a power they put into that!"

"But G.o.d is with us, not with them!" put in Peterkin earnestly. "Let's have our song to answer them," he added, striking up the tune.

So they sung the song they had sung as they started off to the war--a song about camping in the squares of the Browns' capital and dining in the Browns' government palace; a hurrahing, marchy song, but without exactly the snap in keeping with its character.

"The trouble is that they lie at the mouths of their burrows and get us naked to their fire," said the banker's son. "We have to take their positions--they don't try to take ours."

"But we must go on! We can't give up now!" said the barber's son.

"Yes, we must go on!" agreed some of the others stubbornly.

"Yes, yes," came faintly from the very tired voice.

"We shall win! The aggressive always wins!" declared Peterkin.

Then the redoubt shook with an explosion and their eyes were blinded with dust.

"I thought it was about time!" said the barber's son.

"Yes, the--!" snarled Pilzer.

The sh.e.l.l had struck some distance away from where they sat, and as the dust settled they heard the news of the result:

"One fellow had his arm broken and another had his head crushed."

"It'll keep us from working on the mine while we mend the breach," said the barber's son.

While the judge's son was telling the news, the colonel of the 128th and Captain Fraca.s.se were eating their biscuits together and making occasional remarks rather than holding a conversation.

"Well, Westerling is a field-marshal," said the colonel.

"Yes, he's got something out of it!"

"The men seem to be losing their spirit--there's no doubt of it!"

exclaimed the colonel, more aloud to himself than to Fraca.s.se, after a while.

"No wonder!" replied Fraca.s.se. Martinet though he was, he spoke in grumbling loyalty to his soldiers. "What kind of spirit is there in doing the work of navvies? Spirit! No soldiers ever fought better--in invasion, at least. Look at our losses! Spirit! Westerling drives us in.

He thinks we can climb Niagara Falls! He--"

"Stop! You're talking like an anarchist!" snapped the colonel. "How can the men have spirit when you feel that way?"

"I shall continue to obey orders and do my duty, sir!" replied Fraca.s.se.

"And they will, too, or I'll know the reason why."

There was a silence, but at length the colonel exploded:

"I suppose Westerling knows what he is doing!"

"Still, we must go on! We must win!"