their gun is now to them a menacing creature of steel, whose breath may
be the breath of death. They stand in groups, they eye it, they
speculate, and they feel that a desperate and perilous duty is before
them.

The risk must be taken. The cartridge must be extracted. It is a fortune
of war which all who enlist must expect. But it is one thing to fall
before an enemy's blow, and another to lose your life at the stroke of
your own weapon.

The officer of the division steps forward.

"We will see if we can't take it out without much danger," he says,
briefly. "Bring a rope."

One is hastily procured, and the first captain--a great, brawny,
good-natured fellow, who has spent years at sea--deftly fastens the
bight of the rope to the handle of the breechblock. He then retreats a
short distance and signifies his readiness.

"When I give the word," calls out the officer, "pull handsomely.
Ready--pull away!"

From out the smoke-filled compartment men lean forward,
eagerly--anxiously. They instinctively shrink back as the breech plug
slowly moves. Then, when it finally opens, revealing the brass head of
the cartridge inside the firing chamber, a sigh of relief comes from
all.

But the danger is not yet over.