nd then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap
into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when
he reached the foot of the hill--Sharpe and a tall Cuban close at his
side with machete drawn--the one Cuban hero of that fierce charge. But
he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were
coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for
breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and Lieutenant--gasping,
too. To right and left--faint cheers. To the right, a machine gun
playing like hail on the yellow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in
front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling
backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the firing--the
Spaniards were running--and then the top--the top! Sharpe sprang over
the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised
his pistol, and Sharpe fell. With one leap, Crittenden reached him with
the butt of his gun and, with savage exultation, he heard the skull of
the Spaniard crash.

* * * * *

Straight in front, the Spaniards were running like rabbits through the
brush. To the left, Kent was charging far around and out of sight. To
the right, Rough Riders and negroes were driving Spaniards down one hill
and up the next. The negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a
voodoo dance. One big Sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a
piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a Mauser bullet, and
shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously:

"Heah, somebody, gimme a gun! gimme a gun, I tell ye," still striding
ahead and looking never behind him. "You don't know how to fight. Gimme
a gun!" To the negro's left, a young Lieutenant was going up the hill
with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other--taking pictures
as he ran. A bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro
trooper, toppled suddenly and fell, and another negro stopped in the
charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther.

And all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a
hard rain in summer dust. Whenever a Spaniard would leap from the
trench, he fell headlong. That pitiless fire kept in the trenches the
Spaniards who were found there--wretched, pathetic, half-starved little
creatures--and some terrible deeds were done in the lust of slaughter.
One gaunt fellow thrust a clasp-knife into the