the exquisite face that he would have loved to kiss--he
saw it with the golden glow of evening upon the delicate cheeks, and
with the lurid light of fire and battle upon the soft, fair hair.

And the greatness of his love helped him to understand what life still
held for him--the happiness of supreme sacrifice.

All around him was death, but there was some life too: one or two poor,
abandoned riderless horses were quietly picking bits of corn from
between the piles of dead and dying men, or were standing, sniffing the
air with dilated nostrils, and snorting with terror at the deafening
noise. Bobby had steadied himself, neither his head nor his limbs were
aching now--at any rate he had forgotten them--all that he remembered
was what he saw, those black-coated Brunswickers who longed to fly and
could not and who were being slaughtered like insects even as they
stumbled and fled.

And Bobby caught the bridle of one of these poor, terror-stricken beasts
that stood snorting and sniffing not far away: he crawled up into the
saddle, for his thigh was numb and one of his arms helpless. But once on
horseback he could get along--over trampled corn and over the dead--on
toward that hideous corner behind the farm of La Haye Sainte where
desperate men were butchering others that were more desperate than
they--in among that seething crowd of black coats and fur bonnets, of
silver tassels and of brass eagles, into a whirlpool of swords and
bayonets and gun-fire from the tirailleurs--for there he had seen the
man whom Crystal loved--for whose sake she would eat out her heart with
mourning and regret.

In the deafening noise of shrieking and sighs and whizzing bullets and
cries of agony he heard Crystal's voice telling him what to do. Already
he had seen St. Genis struggling on his knees not fifty metres away from
the first line of tirailleurs, not a hundred from the advancing steel
wall of fixed bayonets. Maurice had thrown back his head, in the
hopelessness of his despair; the evening sun fell full upon his haggard,
blood-stained face, upon his wide-open eyes filled with the terror of
death. The next moment Bobby Clyffurde was by his side; all around him
bullets were whizzing--all around him men sighed their last sigh of
agony. He stooped over his saddle: "Can you pull yourself up?" he
called. And with his one sound arm he caught Maurice by the elbow and
helped him to struggle to his feet. The horse, dazed with terror,
snorted a