of duty and expressing his firm belief in our victory. We all knew that
his martial attitude and abrupt manner were a mask to hide his inner
self, full of throbbing emotion and tender solicitude for his
subordinates, and we returned to our trenches deeply moved.

The camp was absolutely quiet, the only movements noticeable
being around the field kitchens in the rear, which were being
removed from the battle line. A half hour later any casual observer,
glancing over the deserted fields might have laughed at the
intimation that the earth around him was harboring thousands of
men armed to their teeth, and that pandemonium of hell would
break loose within an hour. Barely a sound was audible, and a hush
of expectancy descended upon us. I looked around at my men in
the trench; some were quietly asleep, some writing letters, others
conversed in subdued and hushed tones. Every face I saw bore
the unmistakable stamp of the feeling so characteristic of the last
hour before a battle,--that curious mixture of solemn dignity, grave
responsibility, and suppressed emotion, with an undercurrent of sad
resignation. They were pondering over their possible fate, or
perhaps dreaming of their dear ones at home.

By and by even the little conversation ceased, and they sat quite
silent, waiting and waiting, perhaps awed by their own silence.
Sometimes one would bravely try to crack a joke, and they laughed,
but it sounded strained. They were plainly nervous, these brave
men that fought like lions in the open when led to an attack,
heedless of danger and destruction. They felt under a cloud in the
security of the trenches, and they were conscious of it and
ashamed. Sometimes my faithful orderly would turn his eye on me,
mute, as if in quest of an explanation of his own feeling. Poor dear