os 
t 
Arnaux 
flashing of color, a twinkling of whiteness—and 
went back empty. While Arnaux cleft the air 
of the valley as a stone from a sling, to be lost— 
a white-winged bird—a spot with flashing halo 
—and, quickly, a speck in the offing. On down 
the dear valley of Hudson, the well-known 
highway; for two years he had not seen it ! 
Now he dropped low as the noon breeze came 
north and ruffled the river below him. Home! 
home! home! and the towers of a city are 
coming in view! Home! home! past the 
great spider-bridge of Poughkeepsie, skimming, 
skirting the river-banks. Low now by the 
bank as the wind arose. Low, alas! too low! 
What fiend was it tempted a gunner in June to 
lurk on that hill by the margin? what devil 
directed his gaze to the twinkling of white that 
came from the blue to the northward? Oh, 
Arnaux, Arnaux, skimming low, forget not the 
gunner of old! Too low, too low you are clear- 
ing that hill. Too low—‘o late/ Flash — 
bang! and the death-hail has reached him; 
reached, maimed, but not downed him. Out 
of the flashing pinions broken feathers printed 
with records went fluttering earthward. The 
102 
