A grey soldier attempted once to change his
place, whereupon three shots thundered from the other side, and the
man only turned over and remained still. Later two men were killed,
one on each side, and again everything grew still.
The clatter of the rain alone was heard, as though, invisible to the
eye, some one wept bitterly in the forest. The hours were passing, and
the nervous tension grew intolerable, assuming the intensity of agony.
It was quite apparent that things could not go on in this way much
longer, and every one knew that whoever would lift his head would be
killed on the spot. Lord only knows the odd and horrible thoughts that
were passing in these terror-stricken, muddled minds.
Hershel Mak felt very keenly that he was eager to live; that like the
rest of these men, he had a father and mother and also his own little
desires, remote from this place and sacred to him alone. He was also
sorry for "uncle" and for that dying German, who lay in the puddle,
and who had been killed, perhaps by a bullet from "uncle's" rifle.
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