to see if the sergeant was with us yet, and saw him
calmly wiping his bayonet; not a feature showed any trace of
excitement--that encouraged me. I would have wished to know if Klipfel
and Furst were unhurt, but the command, "Carry arms!" made me think of
myself.

The three first columns of the enemy had halted on the hill of
Gross-Gorschen to await their supports. The village in the valley
between us was on fire, the flames bursting from the thatched roofs and
the smoke rising to the sky, and to the left across the ploughed field
we saw a long line of cannon coming down to open upon us.

It might have been mid-day when the six columns began their march and
deployed masses of hussars and cavalry on both sides of Gross-Gorschen.
Our artillery, placed behind the squares on the top of the ridge,
opened a terrible fire on the Prussian gunners, who replied all along
their line.

Our drums began to beat in the squares to give warning that the enemy
were approaching, but their rattle was like the buzz of a fly in the
storm, while in the valley the Prussians shouted all together,
"_Vaterland! Vaterland!_"

Their fire by battalion, as they climbed the hill, enveloped us in
smoke--as the wind blew toward us--and hindered us from seeing them.
Nevertheless, we began our file-firing. We heard and saw nothing but
the noise and smoke of battle for the next quarter of an hour, when
suddenly the Prussian hussars were in our square. I know not how it
happened, but there they were on their little horses, sabring us
without mercy. We fought with our bayonets; we shouted; they slashed,
and fired their pistols. The carnage was horrible. Zebede, Sergeant
Pinto, and some twenty of the company held together. I shall see all
my life long the pale-faced, long-mustached hussars, the straps of
their shakos tight under their jaws, whose horses reared and neighed as
they dashed over the heaps of dead and wounded. I remember the cries,
French and German in a horrid mixture, that arose; how they called us
"_Schweinpelz_" and how old Pinto never ceased to cry, "Strike bravely,
my boys; strike bravely!"

I never knew how we escaped; we ran at random through the smoke, and
dashed through the midst of sabres and flying bullets. I only remember
that Zebede every moment cried out to me, "Come on! come on!" and that
at last we found ourselves on a hill-side behind a square which yet
held firm, with Sergeant Pinto and seven or eight others of t