"'Then were the judgments loosened.' The attack is on now, and the thin brown lines are moving forward--slowly at first, as they approach the shallows of the river beyond the bridges and the islands. Those wreaths of smoke are Zassolich's welcome--from studiously emplaced pieces raking the challengers--but the challengers are closing their gaps and gaining momentum--carrying their wounded with them, as they wade forward. There are those, of course, whom it is impossible to assist--those who stumble in the shallow water to be snuffed out, candle-fashion.'"
The General paused to readjust his glasses, and Colonel Wallifarro mused with eyes fixed on the violet spirals of smoke twisting up from his cigar end. "Our friend would seem to be playing a man's game, after his long hermitage."
"'The farther shore is reached under a withering fire. Annihilation threatens the yellow men--they waver--then comes the order to charge. For an instant the brown lines shiver and hang hesitant under the sting of the death-hail--but after that moment they leap forward and sweep upward. Their momentum gathers to an irresistible onrush, and under it the defence breaks down. The noises that have raved from earth to heaven, from horizon to horizon, are dropping from crescendo to diminuendo. The field pieces of the Czar are being choked into the muffled growl of despair. Doggedly the Russian is giving back.'"
"Do you suppose, General," inquired Colonel Wallifarro suddenly, "that McCalloway confided the purpose of his journey to the boy?"
Prince shook his head positively. "I am quite sure that he has confided it to no one--but I am equally sure that Boone has guessed it by now."
"In that event I think it would tremendously interest him to read that article."
In the log house, where he had now no companionship, Boone received the narrative.
The place was very empty. Twilight had come on with its dispiriting shadows, and Boone lighted a lamp, and since the night was cool he had also kindled a few logs on the hearth.
For a long while he sat there after reading and rereading the description of the fight along the Manchurian River. His hands rested on his knees, and his fingers held the clipping.
On the table a forgotten law book lay open at a chapter on torts, but the young man's eyes were fixed on the blaze, in whose fitful leapings he was picturing, "the thunders through the foothills; tufts of fleecy shrapnel spread along the empty plain"--and in the picture he always saw one face, dominated by a pair of eyes that could be granite-stern or soft as mossy waters.