a sharpshooter has picked you out and is plugging at you, they are
intelligent and vindictive. Coming through that bottom, they were for
all the world like a lot of nasty little insects. And listen to 'em
now." The other man listened. "Hear 'em as they pass over and go out of
hearing. That is for all the world like the last long note of a meadow
lark's song when you hear him afar off and at sunset. But I notice that
simile didn't occur to me until I got under the lee of this hill." He
looked around. "This hill will be famous, I suppose. Let's go up
higher." They went up higher, passing a crowd of skulkers, or men in
reserve--Grafton could not tell which--and as they went by a soldier
said:

"Well, if I didn't have to be here, I be damned if I wouldn't like to
see anybody get me here. What them fellers come fer, I can't see."

The firing was still hot when the two men got up to the danger line, and
there they lay down. A wounded man lay at Grafton's elbow. Once his
throat rattled and Grafton turned curiously.

"That's the death-rattle," he said to himself, and he had never heard a
death-rattle before. The poor fellow's throat rattled again, and again
Grafton turned.

"I never knew before," he said to himself, "that a dying man's throat
rattled but once." Then it flashed on him with horror that he should
have so little feeling, and he knew it at once as the curious
callousness that comes quickly to toughen the heart for the sights of
war. A man killed in battle was not an ordinary dead man at all--he
stirred no sensation at all--no more than a dead animal. Already he had
heard officers remarking calmly to one another, and apparently without