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Updated: May 16, 2025
Dellarme, his cap held before him in the jaunty fashion of officers, bowed, his face beaming his happiness at her decision. As they entered the dining-room Marta saw that the shell which had entered the window had burst just over the heavy mahogany table and a fragment of the jacket had cut a long scar in the rich fibre. She paused, her breath coming and going hotly.
With the aid of a small electric flash, screened by his hands, Dellarme again examined a section of the staff map that outlined the contour of the knoll in relation to the other positions.
But she hurried on, impelled by she knew not what, through the dining-room, and, coming to the veranda, stopped short, with dilating eyes and a cry of grievous shock. Two of his men were carrying Dellarme back from the breastwork where they had caught him in their arms as he fell. They laid him gently on the sward with a knapsack under his head.
There was something more than mere titular respect in the way the young captain saluted -admiration and the diffident, boyish glance of recognition which does not presume to take the lead in recalling a slight acquaintance with a man of distinction. "Dellarme! It's all of two years since we met at Miss Galland's, isn't it?" Lanstron said, shaking hands with the captain.
Feller, unconscious of everything but the gun, righted the cartridge band, swung the barrel back and forth, and then fired a shot. "You you seem to know rapid-firers!" Dellarme exclaimed in blank incomprehension. "Yes, sir!" Feller raised his finger, whether in salute as a soldier or as a gardener touching his hat it was hard to say. "But how where?" gasped Dellarme.
The guns of one battery of that Gray regiment of artillery, each firing six fourteen-pound shells a minute methodically, every shell loaded with nearly two hundred projectiles, were giving their undivided attention to the knoll. How long could his company endure this? Dellarme might well ask. He knew that he would not be expected to withdraw yet.
The golden glow of the sunset was running in his veins in a paean of personal triumph. The profile turned ever so little. Now it was looking at the point where Dellarme had lain dying. Westerling noted the smile playing on the lips. It had the quality of a smile over a task completed Dellarme's smile.
He felled the sergeant with a blow and, recklessly defiant, stared at Dellarme, while the men, steadily firing, were still oblivious of the scene. The sergeant, stunned, rose to his knees and reached for his revolver. Dellarme, bent over to keep his head below the crest, had already drawn his as he hastened toward them. "Stransky," said Dellarme, "you have struck an officer under fire!
"Put me down! I ain't going to depend on any traitor that insulted the flag!" protested grandfather. "That's the way! Call out to me now and then so I'll know you're there," said Stransky. "You're so light I mightn't know it if you fell off." Dellarme did not think it right to expose the last section by asking it to delay.
"And you certainly are pretty," he added, passing out of the door as jauntily as if he were ready for another fight and just in time to see the colonel of the regiment come around the house. He stood at the salute, half proudly, half defiantly, but in nowise humbly. "Well, Major Dellarme!" was the colonel's greeting of the company commander. "Major?" exclaimed Dellarme. "Yes. Partow has the power.
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