No one spoke; the uncertainty and suspense continued. They knew not
whether the enemy was on their front or in their rear. Strange sounds
came to their ears from time to time from out the depths of the
mysterious fog: the rumble of wheels, the deadened tramp of moving
masses, the distant clatter of horses' hoofs; it was the evolutions of
troops, hidden from view behind the misty curtain, the batteries,
battalions, and squadrons of the 7th corps taking up their positions
in line of battle. Now, however, it began to look as if the fog was
about to lift; it parted here and there and fragments floated lightly
off, like strips of gauze torn from a veil, and bits of sky appeared,
not transparently blue, as on a bright summer's day, but opaque and of
the hue of burnished steel, like the cheerless bosom of some deep,
sullen mountain tarn. It was in one of those brighter moments when the
sun was endeavoring to struggle forth that the regiments of chasseurs
d'Afrique, constituting part of Margueritte's division, came riding
by, giving the impression of a band of spectral horsemen. They sat
very stiff and erect in the saddle, with their short cavalry jackets,
broad red sashes and smart little _kepis_, accurate in distance and
alignment and managing admirably their lean, wiry mounts, which were
almost invisible under the heterogeneous collection of tools and camp
equipage that they had to carry. Squadron after squadron they swept by
in long array, to be swallowed in the gloom from which they had just
emerged, vanishing as if dissolved by the fine rain. The truth was,
probably, that they were in the way, and their leaders, not knowing
what use to put them to, had packed them off the field, as had often
been the case since the opening of the campaign. They had scarcely
ever been employed on scouting or reconnoitering duty, and as soon as
there was prospect of a fight were trotted about for shelter from
valley to valley, useless objects, but too costly to be endangered.