I had washed my face, hitched up my trousers. I sat on the
trunk of a tree, watched the dew on the grass and the faint
blue like the colour of a bird's egg flood the sky, staining
it pale yellow. All firing had utterly ceased. There was
not a sound except the birds in the trees who were beginning
to sing. A soldier, a fine grave figure with a black beard,
was washing in a little pool at the end of the garden. He
was naked save for his white drawers. There was, I repeat,
not a sound. Our cottage looked so peaceful--smoke coming
from the chimney. No sign of the shambles, no sign except
the four dead men, all so grave and quiet. The blue in the
sky grew deeper. Then the sun rose, a jolly gold ball with
red clouds swinging in streamers away from it.
The birds sang above my head so loudly that the boy who was
mowing looked up at them. The soldier finished his washing,
put on his shirt. He was a Mahommedan, I perceived, because
he prayed, very solemnly, his face to the sun, bowing to the
ground.
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