The regiment slid down a bank and wallowed across a little stream.
The mournful current moved slowly on, and from the water,
shaded black, some white bubble eyes looked at the men.

As they climbed the hill on the farther side artillery began to boom.
Here the youth forgot many things as he felt a sudden impulse of curiosity.
He scrambled up the bank with a speed that could not be exceeded by a
bloodthirsty man.

He expected a battle scene.

There were some little fields girted and squeezed by a forest.
Spread over the grass and in among the tree trunks, he could see
knots and waving lines of skirmishers who were running hither and
thither and firing at the landscape. A dark battle line lay upon
a sunstruck clearing that gleamed orange color. A flag fluttered.

Other regiments floundered up the bank. The brigade was formed
in line of battle, and after a pause started slowly through
the woods in the rear of the receding skirmishers, who were
continually melting into the scene to appear again farther on.
They were always busy as bees, deeply absorbed in their little combats.

The youth tried to observe everything. He did not use care to
avoid trees and branches, and his forgotten feet were constantly
knocking against stones or getting entangled in briers. He was
aware that these battalions with their commotions were woven red
and startling into the gentle fabric of softened greens and browns.
It looked to be a wrong place for a battle field.