Through These Fires (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

      CHAPTER I

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      The sunset was startling that night, bursting angrily through ominous clouds that had seemed impenetrable all day, and fairly tearing them to inky tatters, letting the fire of evening blaze into a terror-stricken world sodden with grief and bewilderment. Like an indomitable flag of mingled vengeance and hope, it pierced the dome of heaven and waved courageously, a call, a summons across the thunderous sky and above a drab, discouraged world. It broke the leaden bars and threw down a challenge to disheartened, straggling fighters who had been brave that morning when the battle began, and who had gone on through a day of horror, seeing their comrades fall about them, facing a cruel foe, fighting on with failing strength, and in the face of what seemed hopeless odds.

      And then that fire of glory burst through and flung its challenge, and the leaders seemed to gather courage from the flaming banner in the sky. Herding their scattered comrades together, they took new heart of hope, and turning, renewed the warfare more fiercely than before.

      Benedict Barron was one of those discouraged fainting soldiers who had fought all day on very little food, and who more and more was feeling the hopelessness of what he was doing. What useless wasting of life and blood for a mere bare strip of land that didn't seem worth fighting for. And yet he had fought, and would continue to fight, he knew, as long as there was any strength left in him.

      Mackenzie, their haggard-faced captain, drew them into a brief huddle and spoke a few low, desperate words, pointing toward that gray distance before them that looked so barren and worthless, so unworthy of struggle.

      "Do you see that land ahead?" he asked his men, a fierce huskiness in his vibrant voice. "It looks gray and empty to us now, but it is the way to a great wealth of oil wells! It is the way to victory, for one side or the other. Which shall it be? Victory for us, or for our enemies? If the Germans get those oil wells they undoubtedly will win! We are trying to head them off. Are you game?"

      There was a moment of dead silence while his words sank into the tired hearts of the exhausted men, as they looked at their captain's grim, determined face, and thrilled with the words he had spoken. Then those tired soldiers took a deep breath and brought forth a cheer, in which Victory echoed down the gray slopes toward the enemy, Victory for freedom! Not for the enemy! And it was Benedict Barron whose voice led the cheer, and beside him his comrade Sam Newlin took it up.

      Oil wells down there in the gray darkness, banner of fire in the sky, lighting the way to victory. Yes, they would go, every one of those tired soldiers, even if it meant giving their lives in the effort. It was worth it. Never would they let the enemy have free access to all that oil. This was what they had left their homes and their dear ones to do, and they would do it, even unto death. Victory! On to Victory!

      They plunged down toward the dim gray twilight ahead, Ben Barron's face alight from the brightness above him, his lips set, his gaze ahead, new strength pouring through his veins. The weariness of the day was forgotten. A new impetus had come, a reason for winning the victory. Something to be greatly desired, symbolized by that bright, arrogant banner of fire above them.

      Into the dusk Ben Barron plunged with the flaming banner above, looking toward the land they must take and hold at all costs. The dying sun in its downward course shot vividly out with its great red eye, bloodshot, daring the men not to falter. Then suddenly it dropped into its deep blue shroud leaving only shreds of ragged gold as a hint of the glory that might be won. Afterward darkness! For even the edges of glory-gold were blotted out in the darkest night those men had ever known.

      A great droning arose in the sky behind, and it seemed to Ben Barron that he was alone with all the responsibility resting on him. There were oncoming planes, an ominous, determined sound, their twinkling lights starring the heavens as if they had a right to be there, reminding one of satanic entrances: "I will be like the most High"—the arrogance of Lucifer.

      The

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