And then came the climax: something passed us,--high above our
heads, I fancy, though its frightful winds seemed brushing us,--a ghost
of the night, an aerial demon, a shrieking thing that made the man
beside me cringe and shudder. It was new to me, but I could not mistake
it. It was what the French call an _obus_, a word that in some subtle
manner seems more menacing and dreadful than our own term of shell.
As we sped on I leaned against the cushions, outwardly quiet. Inwardly,
I was gathering myself together for my attempt. I had not thought I
would first approach the Front this way; but it was a good way, I had
a good object. At the next stop, whatever it was, I meant to make the
venture. I did not doubt I should succeed in it. But I could not hope to
keep my life.
Another _obus_ hurtled over us and shrieked away into the distance; and
again the man beside me flinched, but I did not. I was thinking, with
odd lucidity, of many things, among them Dunny and his old house
in Washington, into which I should never again let myself with my
latch-key, sure of a welcome at any hour of the day or night.
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