in the night toward a sky-line torn with intermittent flame.
"We're going toward a battle," Troy sang to himself, "toward a battle, toward a battle. . . ." But the words meant no more to him than the doggerel the soldier was chanting at his elbow.
They were in a wood, slipping forward cautiously, beating their way through the under-growth. The night had grown cloudy, but now and then the clouds broke, and a knot of stars clung to a branch like swarming bees.
At length a halt was called in a clearing, and then the group to which Troy had attached himself was ordered forward. He did not understand the order, but seeing the men moving he followed, like a mascot dog trotting after its company, and they began to beat their way onward, still more
