"What's it all about?" wondered a big black bird perched in the top of the tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was not wise enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he kept blinking and wondering.
The noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke the little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curled up toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds thought it was going to rain; but the wise one knew better.
"They are children playing a game," thought he. "I shall know more about it if I watch long enough."
At the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and smoke. Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had understood! With a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward, circling toward the plain.
A man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in the garb of a clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations of religion to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger a spark of life. A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and a flask of wine.
There were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreat had been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have to look to the dead.
There was a soldier--a mere boy--lying with his face to the sky. His hands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his despairing grasp upon life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and his face and clothing were begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain and locket. The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removed it from the dead soldier's neck. He had grown used to the terrors of war and could face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always brought the tears to his old, dim eyes.
The angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro knelt and murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for the dead.

“那究竟是什么？”栖息在那棵最高的树顶上的大黑鸟不明白了。它是一个年龄很大的隐士，并且是一个智者。但是还是不够睿智到猜到那究竟是什么。所以一天到晚，他不停的眨着眼睛，冥思苦想。
嘈杂声穿过平原远远地到来，传到了山的那一边，吵醒了还在摇篮中沉睡的小姑娘。烟雾缭绕，遮住了太阳，在平原上投下阴影，以至于那些愚蠢的鸟儿以为快要下雨了，不过智者不会这样想的。
“他们是孩子们玩的游戏，”他想，“我想如果我看得时间够长的话我会知道得更多。”
在接近夜晚的时候，他们和他们的烟雾一起消失地无影无踪。那只很老的鸟整理着它的羽毛。最后它站起来了！用它巨大的，黑色的翅膀，上下拍打，突然像子弹一样向下冲去，在平原上划了一圈。
一个男人在平原的对面走了过来。他穿着一件牧师的制服。他的使命是管理那些这个地区为了安慰生命微弱者而精疲力竭的人们。一个黑人陪伴着他，提着一桶水和一瓶酒。
这里没有伤员，他们已经被感染了，死掉了。但是他们需要被埋葬，秃鹫和那些行善乐施的好心人都会来看望他们。
有一个士兵，只不过还是个孩子，脸朝上躺在那里。他的手里紧紧抓着身边的草地，他的指甲深深地嵌在泥土中，在他躺着的那一小片草地上，紧握着他对生命的绝望。他的滑膛枪已经不见了。他的证件，衣服和脸都肮脏不堪。在他的脖子上，挂着一条金链子，上面还有一个小饰盒。那个主教，弯腰看着他，解开项链的搭扣，从那个士兵的脖子上拿了下来。他已习惯这充满战争恐惧的年代，并且可以毫不退缩地面对它。但是，为什么，还是这么的感伤呢？泪水总是充满他那老眼昏花的双眼。
祈祷的钟声在半英里外的地方敲响。主教和那个敲丧钟的黑人低语，商量晚上为死者举行的祈福仪式。