THE LITTLE REGIMENT

I


The fog made the clothes of the men of the column in the roadway seem
of a luminous quality. It imparted to the heavy infantry overcoats a new
colour, a kind of blue which was so pale that a regiment might have been
merely a long, low shadow in the mist. However, a muttering, one part
grumble, three parts joke, hovered in the air above the thick ranks, and
blended in an undertoned roar, which was the voice of the column.

The town on the southern shore of the little river loomed spectrally, a
faint etching upon the grey cloud-masses which were shifting with oily
languor. A long row of guns upon the northern bank had been pitiless in
their hatred, but a little battered belfry could be dimly seen still
pointing with invincible resolution toward the heavens.

The enclouded air vibrated with noises made by hidden colossal things.
The infantry tramplings, the heavy rumbling of the artillery, made the
earth speak of gigantic preparation. Guns on distant heights thundered
from time to time with sudden, nervous roar, as if unable to endure in
silence a knowledge of hostile troops massing, other guns going to
position. These sounds, near and remote, defined an immense battle-
ground, described the tremendous width of the stage of the prospective
drama. The voices of the guns, slightly casual, unexcited in their
challenges and warnings, could not destroy the unutterable eloquence of
the word in the air, a meaning of impending struggle which made the
breath halt at the lips.