way. The senior officer moved with big, rapid strides from one gun to another with a frowning face. The young officer, with his face still more flushed, commanded the men more scrupulously than ever. The soldiers handed up the charges, turned, loaded, and did their business with strained smartness. They gave little jumps as they walked, as though they were on springs.
The storm cloud had come upon them, and in every face the fire which Pierre had watched kindle burned up brightly.
Pierre standing beside the commanding officer.
The young officer, his hand to his shako, ran up to his superior.
“I have the honor to report, sir, that only eight rounds are left. Are we to continue firing?” he asked.
“Grapeshot!” the senior shouted, without answering the question, looking over the wall of the trench.
Suddenly something happened: the young officer