Here was war of some sort, tormenting the roads; war which staggered with flapping, canvas-weighted wagons. Dan had the notion that he was expected to do something about this—he did not know what to do. Tyler should be at hand: he was a soldier, such things were his responsibility, and let the bastard be there to accept it.

Mrs. Knouse wailed through a crack of her kitchen door: “Daniel, is there going to be a battle by the seminary?” He yelled, “Stay in your house. Go down cellar—mind, now! There’s apt to be bullets flying round.” And dimly, he thought he heard them high above his head, tired insects whispering, long m-sounds against the pale oven of the sky.

Irene Fanning was not inside the house, where she belonged. She was out in the vegetable garden, slim bust and spreading width of green gown; she was exposed to this unearthly riot. He vaulted over the fence and ran across the pasture as fast as he could run. The lone army mule was trotting in a three-legged circle, round and round and round, with a knot of insects buzzing over the great ulcer on its flank. It lunged away from the path as Bale raced past. Demon scooted out of the barn, waving halters in his fist; the two old nags, the long-retired carriage team, cantered off with their heads held high.

The fence bars were contrived for delay, for the purpose of tripping and bruising ankle bones as one sprang over them. Dan crossed the garden. The girl watched him come. She wore a bonnet with a wide, starchy brim and there were long gardening-gloves drawn over her hands and wrists. She held a tin dishpan, half full of lettuce.

“You’d better go into the house at once,” he cried. “This is a battle—a real one. They may be all over this land in another ten minutes.”

She looked at him very soberly, then made a thin smile. “At first, when I heard those big explosions, I thought workmen were blasting on the new railway line. It sounded like that, when they were blasting out rocks in the hill.”