Give it to 'em!" Grandfather Fragini cried, his old
voice a quavering bird note in the pandemonium. "My, but they do come
fast!" he gasped.

Yes, a trifle faster than in your day, grandfather, when a gun of the
horse-artillery had to be relaid after the recoil, which is now taken up
by an oil chamber, while the gunner on his seat behind the breech keeps
the sight steady on the target. The guns of one battery of that Gray
regiment of artillery, each firing six fourteen-pound shells a minute
methodically, every shell loaded with nearly two hundred projectiles,
were giving their undivided attention to the knoll.

How long could his company endure this? Dellarme might well ask. He knew
that he would not be expected to withdraw yet. With a sense of relief he
saw Fracasse's men drop for cover at the base of the knoll and then,
expectation fulfilled, he realized that rifle-fire now reinforced the
enemy's shell fire. His duty was to remain while he could hold his men,
and a feeling toward them such as he had never felt before, which was
love, sprang full-fledged into his heart as he saw how steadily they
kept up their fusillade.

The sergeant, who now had time to think of Stransky, was seized with a
spasm of retributive rage. He drew his revolver determinedly.

"You brought this on! I'll do for you!" he cried, turning toward the
spot where he had left Stransky, only to lower his revolver in amazement
as he saw Stransky, eager in response to a new passion, spring forward
into place and pick up his rifle.

"If you will not have it my way, take it yours!" said the best shot in
the company, as he began firing with resolute coolness.

"They have a lot of men down," said Dellarme, his glasses showing the
many prostrate figures on the wheat stubble. "Steady! steady! We have
plenty of batteries back in the hills. One will be in action soon."

But would one? He understood that with their smokeless powder the
Gray guns could be located only by their flashes, which would not
be visible unless the refraction of light were favorable. Then
"thur-eesh--thur-eesh" above every other sound in a long wail! No man
ever forgets the first crack of a shrapnel at close quarters, the first
bullet breath on his cheek, or the first supporting shell from his side
in flight that passes above him.

"That is ours!" called Dellarme.

"Ours!" shouted the sergeant.

"Ours!" sang the thought of every one of the men.

Over the Gray batteries on the p