I do not know how long I stood and looked and listened. Eventually I
was aware that the courteous Von Scheller, standing at my elbow, was
repeating something he had already stated at least once.
"Those brighter flashes you see, apparently coming from below the other
lights, are our guns," he was saying. "They seem to be below the others
because they are nearer to us. Personally I don't think these evening
volleys do very much damage," he went on as though vaguely regretful
that the dole of death by night should be so scanty, "because it is
impossible for the men in the outermost observation pits to see the
effect of the shots; but we answer, as you notice, just to show the
French and English we are not asleep."
Those iron vespers lasted, I should say, for the better part of an hour.
When they were ended we went indoors. Everybody was assembled in the
long hall of the Prefecture, and a young officer was smashing out
marching songs on the piano. The Berlin artist made an art gallery of
the billiard table and was exhibiting the water-color sketches he had
done that day--all very dashing and spirited in their treatment, though
a bit splashy and scrambled-eggish as to the use of the pigments.
Pages:
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254