Now, from one of the young officers who had escorted us into the trench, we were hearing it all over again, with elaborations, when a shrapnel shell from the town dropped and burst not far behind us, and rifle bullets began to plump into the earthen bank a little to the right of us; so we promptly went away from there.
We were noncombatants and nowise concerned in the existing controversy; but we remembered the plaintive words of the Chinese Minister at Brussels when he called on our Minister--Brand Whitlock--to ascertain what Whitlock would advise doing in case the advancing Germans fired on the city.

Whitlock suggested to his Oriental brother that he retire to his official residence and hoist the flag of his country over it, thereby making it neutral and protected territory.
"But, Mister Whitlock," murmured the puzzled Chinaman, "the cannon--he has no eyes!" We rode back to Laon through the falling dusk.

The western sky was all a deep saffron pink--the color of a salmon's belly--and we could hear the constant blaspheming of the big siege guns, taking up the evening cannonade along the center.

Pretty soon we caught up with the column that was headed for the right wing.

At that hour it was still in motion, which probably meant forced marching for an indefinite time.
Viewed against the sunset yellow, the figures of the dragoons stood up black and clean, as conventionalized and regular as though they had all been stenciled on that background.