Now the notes
were near and clear, now afar and tremulous; again, deep and sonorous;
now, full and rich, and yet again, fine and sweet. There is a pathos
in the call of a war-trumpet that no frivolous rendering can subdue--it
has sung so long at the death of men and nations.
Outlined in black silhouette against the whitening horizons, the
sentries, tiny and slow-moving in the distance, tramped from post to
post in a forward-leaning line. Soldiers began to shout to each other.
The clanking of many arms made another and a harsher music. The tumult
of thousands of voices burdened the wind and above this presently arose
the eager and expectant whinnyings of a multitude of war-horses.
While the army broke its fast and prepared to move the king stood in
the open space before his tent, with his eyes on the east. The Red Sea
lay there beyond the uplifted line of desert sand, and it was the
birthplace of many mists and unpropitious signs.
Would the sun look upon the king through a veil, or openly? Would he
smile upon the purposes of the Pharaoh?
There were striations, watery and colorless, in the lower slopes of the
morning sky, and these were taking on the light of dawn without its
hues.
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