“Brigades to divide. One half to defend the foot of Missionary, one half to remain on crest. If the enemy attacks in force, fire once’—that is, the force at the foot fire once—‘and retire to the works above—’ H’mmm!” This day was not the humid, languid, foggy day of yesterday. It was cool and still, but the sun was out. The Confederate centre, high on Missionary, saw to-day its foe. The foe was massing, massing, on level and rolling ground below. In the amber air it could be plainly seen. It was in two vast lines of battle, with large reserves in the background, and hovering skirmishers before. The grey, watching, estimated its front, from wing to wing, as two and a half miles. Being formed, it advanced a mile and stood. Now it could be seen with extreme plainness, a blue sea just below. It had, as always, many bands and much music. These made the air throb. At intervals, like blossoms in a giant’s garden, swayed the flags. The crest of Missionary watched. “They’re the boys for an imposing advance!” “How many d’ye suppose they’ve got?” “Don’t know. Don’t know about Ulysses. Xerxes had a million.” “Hope they’re all there. Hope they aren’t trying any flank and rear foolishness.” “Hope not, but I wouldn’t swear to it! I’ve got a distrust of Grant—though it may not be well founded, as the storekeeper said when the clerk and the till were found on the same train.” “Wish there was water up here on Sinai! My mouth’s awful dry.” A man spat. “It’s curious how many this morning I’ve heard say their mouth was awful dry and they felt a little dizzy—” “It’s the altitude.” “Six hundred feet? No. It’s something else. I don’t know just what it is—” Voices died. There fell a quiet as before a thunderstorm, an oppressive quiet. Missionary Ridge, its brows faintly drawn and raised, looked forth upon the sea. The sea stood broodingly quiet, without music now, the coloured blossoms still upon their stems. It held and held, the quietude. Far off a dozen cannon boomed—Sherman’s sullen last attack upon Cleburne. The grey ridge, the blue sea, bent heads to one side, listening. The far-off iron voices ceased to speak. Silence fell again. Up on Missionary a lieutenant drew his hand across his forehead. When it fell again to the sword hilt the palm was wet with sweat, the back was wet. The lieutenant was conscious of a slight nausea. There was a drumming, too, in his ears. He took himself to task. “This will never do,” he said; “this will never do—” Suddenly he thought, “The men are looking at me”—and stood up very straight, smiling stiffly. Off on the horizon three cannon spoke, one after the other, with the effect of a signal. The sound died into silence—there followed a moment of held breath—the storm broke.