Mrs. Berry knelt by the bedside. Her hands were folded. She had been
praying, but exhaustion had overcome her, and her quiet, peaceful
breathing contrasted strangely with the other sounds that filled the
bungalow. Mrs. Carmichael and Beatrice sat huddled close together,
listening. They could do nothing--not even help the wounded men who
lay so close to them. Everything was in pitch darkness, and no lights
were allowed. They could not go out and help in the stern, relentless
struggle that was going on about them. They bore the woman's harder
lot of waiting, inactive, powerless, fighting the harder battle
against uncertainty and all the horrors of the imagination.
"I am sorry the regiment has come," Mrs. Carmichael whispered. "There
is no doubt they will be massacred with the rest of us. What are a few
hundreds against thousands? It is a pity. They are such fine fellows."
Her rough, tired voice had a ring of unconquerable pride in it. She
was thinking of the gallant charge her husband's men had made only two
weeks before; how they had broken through the wall of the enemy, and,
cheering, had rushed to meet the besieged garrison. That had been a
moment of rejoicing, transitory and deceptive. Then the wall closed in
about them again, and they knew that they were trapped.
"Perhaps we can hold out till help comes," Beatrice said.
She tried not to be indifferent. For the sake of her companions she
would gladly have felt some desire for life, but in truth it had no
value for her.
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