ildren, with rightful pride:

"'Lo, I was there!'

"Lucifer gave the signal for the onset and led the assault. We fell upon
the enemy, thinking to destroy him then and there and carry the sacred
citadel at the first onslaught. The soldiers of the jealous God, less
fiery, but no whit less firm than ours, remained immovable. The
Archangel Michael commanded them with the calmness and resolution of a
mighty spirit. Thrice we strove to break through their lines, thrice
they opposed to our ironclad breast the flaming points of their lances,
swift to pierce the stoutest cuirass. In millions the glorious bodies
fell. At length our right wing pierced the enemy's left and we beheld
the Principalities, the Powers, the Virtues, the Dominations, and the
Thrones turn and flee in full career; while the Angels of the Third
Choir, flying distractedly above them, covered them with a snow of
feathers mingled with a rain of blood. We sped in pursuit of them amid
the debris of chariots and broken weapons, and we spurred their nimble
flight. Suddenly a storm of cries amazed us. It grew louder and nearer.
With desperate shrieks and triumphal clamour the right wing of the
enemy, the giant archangels of the Most High, had flung themselves upon
our left flank and broken it. Thus we were forced to abandon the pursuit
of the fugitives and hasten to the rescue of our own shattered troops.
Our prince flew to rally them, and re-established the conflict. But the
left wing of the enemy, whose ruin he had not quite consummated, no
longer pressed by lance or arrow, regained courage, returned, and faced
us yet again. Night fell upon the dubious field. While under the shelter
of darkness, in the still, silent air stirred ever and anon by the moans
of the wounded, his forces were resting from their toils, Lucifer began
to make ready for the next day's battle. Before dawn the trumpets
sounded the reveille. Our warriors surprised the enemy at the hour of
prayer, put them to rout, and long and fierce was the carnage that
ensued. When all had either fallen or fled, the Archangel Michael, none
with him save a few companions with four wings of flame, still resisted
the onslaughts of a countless host. They fell back ceaselessly opposing
their breasts to us, and Michael still displayed an impassible
countenance. The sun had run a third of its course when we commenced to
scale the Mountain of God. An arduous ascent it was: sweat ran from our
brows, a dazzling light