(To hear the music of a country is like hearing a
woman think aloud.)
"What _is_ the tune?" I asked of an officer beside me.
"My faith, I can't recall for the moment. I've marched to it
often enough, though. 'Sambre-et-Meuse,' perhaps. Look!
There goes my battalion! Those Chasseurs yonder."
_He_ knew, of course; but what could a stranger identify in
that earth-shaking passage of thirty thousand?
ARTILLERY AND CAVALRY
The note behind the ridge changed to something deeper.
"Ah! Our guns," said an artillery officer, and smiled
tolerantly on the last blue waves of the Line already beating
toward the horizon.
They came twelve abreast--one hundred and fifty guns free for
the moment to take the air in company, behind their teams.
And next week would see them, hidden singly or in lurking
confederacies, by mountain and marsh and forest, or the
wrecked habitations of men--where?
The big guns followed them, with that long-nosed air of
detachment peculiar to the breed. The Gunner at my side made
no comment. He was content to let his Arm speak for itself,
but when one big gun in a sticky place fell out of alignment
for an instant I saw his eyebrows contract. The artillery
passed on with the same inhuman speed and silence as the Line;
and the Cavalry's shattering trumpets closed it all.
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