These interesting bits of news came from a world not much
more than sixty miles distant in a direct line . . . but so far, so very
far away!
Suddenly the father noticed that his boy was listening with less
attention. His senses, sharpened by a life of alarms and ambushed
attacks, appeared to be withdrawing itself from the company, attracted
by the firing. Those were no longer scattered shots; they had combined
into a continual crackling.
The senator, who had left father and son together that they might talk
more freely, now reappeared.
"We are dismissed from here, my friend," he announced. "We have no luck
in our visits."
Soldiers were no longer passing to and fro. All had hastened to their
posts, like the crew of a ship which clears for action. While Julio was
taking up the rifle which he had left against the wall, a bit of dust
whirled above his father's head and a little hole appeared in the
ground.
"Quick, get out of here!" he said pushing Don Marcelo.
Then, in the shelter of a covered trench, came the nervous, very brief
farewell. "Good-bye, father," a kiss, and he was gone. He had to return
as quickly as possible to the side of his men.
The firing had become general all along the line. The soldiers were
shooting serenely, as though fulfilling an ordinary function. It was a
combat that took place every day without anybody's knowing exactly who
started it--in consequence of the two armies being installed face to
face, and such a short distance apart.
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