She thought, I have no business here by this window, the glass is apt to shatter at any moment, and there would be a hole in my body instead of in the plaster. But still she leaned there, dully conscious of the dry stains on the floor behind her, and wondering why these men were running so fast.

Past the sheds she could see a crowd of soldiers pouring down the pasture. Now the Mercuries, the fleet ones who ran ahead, were flinging themselves over the southeast fence and into Mrs. Knouse’s weedy acres, unchecked and not looking back. The first solid row of troops reached the fence; up they went, and over, gabbling, lifting a National flag and a blue flag high, and then milling on again; they left some of the rails tumbled from the post-slots. A second fringe reached the fence; there was a lean man in a black hat who straddled on the peak, waving a tinny sword, yipping; the men behind him swung around doggedly and dropped to their knees. Their rifles lifted out of the grass, pointing high above the heads of the troops who followed them: ragged jabs of flame tore loose with a munching crash. Then the uneven rank swarmed over the barrier and trotted on, southeast.

Cybo barking … Irene could not see him. He was somewhere behind the trees up toward the seminary. She opened the rear door of the kitchen, and a storm of noise poured through. The turnpike beyond Dan Bale’s house was a crowded torrent of dust, seething with wheels and rearing teams; the guns bounced furiously along, stiff on their axles. Retreating batteries, with inky gunners and beaten horses, implanted the whole understanding which the woman had not grasped before.

Running away, she cried to herself. They’ve quit—they’re going to the town, and what will happen now? In all the turmoil of pastures and roads, there lived a piercing cry long-caged behind Oak Ridge and now rising, whelped and eager, from close beside the brick school.

The family had come up from the cellar; their feet skulked in the passageway. Miss Irene, came the old negro’s frantic whisper, Miss Irene! … and the spasm of Fanning whispers, Daughter, Daughter, and Gretel’s squeals. “It’s a retreat!” the girl called to them, but she could not turn; she must stare at these plunging herds. Already the fastest runners were swallowed in village dust and village trees, and on the other side of the house you could hear the Fairfield road squirming under more runaways … Something fan-shaped grew enormously out of the garden; she fell back against the side of the doorway and flung up her arms instinctively. The house staggered under the concussion, and things of some sort had been flying high when the shell burst.