hough
the world had fallen into profound silence. The yells of the combatants,
the thud of colliding bodies, the clang of arms seemed as nothing after
the cannon had quieted down. He saw men pierced through the middle by
gun points whose reddened ends came out through their kidneys; muskets
raining hammer-like blows, adversaries that grappled in hand-to-hand
tussles, rolling over and over on the ground, trying to gain the
advantage by kicks and bites.

The mustard-colored fronts had entirely disappeared, and he now saw only
backs of that color fleeing toward the exit, filtering among the trees,
falling midway in their flight when hit by the pursuing balls. Many
of the invaders were unable to chase the fugitives because they were
occupied in repelling with rude thrusts of their bayonets the bodies
falling upon them in agonizing convulsions.

Don Marcelo suddenly found himself in the very thick of these mortal
combats, jumping up and down like a child, waving his hands and shouting
with all his might. When he came to himself again, he was hugging
the grimy head of a young French officer who was looking at him in
astonishment. He probably thought him crazy on receiving his kisses, on
hearing his incoherent torrent of words. Emotionally exhausted, the worn
old man continued to weep after the officer had freed himself with a
jerk. . . . He needed to give vent to his feelings after so many days of
anguished self-control. Vive la France! . . .

His beloved French were already within the park gates. They were
running, bayonets in hand, in pursuit of the last remnants of the German
battalion trying to escape toward the village. A group of horsemen
passed along the road. They were dragoons coming to complete the rout.
But their horses were fagged out; nothing but the fever of victory
transmitted from man to beast had sustained their painful pace. One
of the equestrians came to a stop near the entrance of the park, the
famished horse eagerly devouring the herbage while his rider settled
down in the saddle as though asleep. Desnoyers touched him on the hip in
order to waken him, but he immediately rolled off on the opposite side.
He was dead, with his entrails protruding from his body, but swept on
with the others, he had been brought thus far on his steady steed.

Enormous tops of iron and smoke now began falling in the neighborhood.
The German artillery was opening a retaliatory fire against its
lost positions. The advance co