In front of him lay darkness and silence, with the horizon bounded by
that saddest of all woods where the heaped dead lay.
Dick looked back toward the Henry Hill, on the slopes of which were the
fragments of his own regiment. Lights were moving there, but they were
so dim they showed nothing. Then he turned his face toward the enemy's
position and did not look back again.
The character of the night was changing. It had come on dark and heavy.
Hot and breathless like the one before, he had taken no notice of the
change save for the increased darkness. Now he felt a sudden damp touch
on his face, as if a wet finger had been laid there. The faintest of
winds had blown for a moment or two, and when Dick looked up, he saw that
the sky was covered with black clouds. The saddest of woods had moved
far away, but by some sort of optical illusion he could yet see it.
Save for the distant flash of random firing, the darkness was intense.
Every star was gone, and Dick moved without any guide. But he needed
none. His course was fixed. He could not miss the mournful wood hanging
there like a pall on the horizon.
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