since the last loud Sabbath of Waterloo shook down the spoilers of
the Continent; but, unseen at this distance, the guns which line that
wrinkle of the hill above there are charged to the throat, and there are
resolute men behind them.

The sun rises higher and higher, and the men of the halted army throw
themselves to the ground, awaiting a further word from somebody.
Solitary gallopers go hither and thither, over the rolling hills. The
staff, with waving plumes, goes cantering along the line, and the idea
somehow passes through the ranks that Lord Raglan has gone to consult
with Monsieur St. Arnaud as to the disposition of the day's battle.
There are thousands of youngsters lying there among the vineyards who
have never, until this moment, set eyes on their commander. Raglan
goes by amidst a dropping fire of cheers, the sleeve of the right arm
dangling loose beside him, his bronzed Roman face one cheerful and
inspiring smile, and the cunning left hand, with which he has learned to
write his despatches, held low down as he controls his charger. And on
the far right of the English line, Polson Jervase is standing at his
horse's head, cheering with the rest, when on a sudden he discerns a
familiar figure: General Boswell is at the Chiefs side and the two are
in familiar converse. The young soldier's first battle not yet begun,
and Irene's father going by so near and yet so unmindful of him as a
mere unit among the waiting thousands. And it is not yet, not even yet,
so very certain that we are to give battle this morning, after all. For
we have been bedevilled hither and thither with false marches and with
false rumours of sailing and lines of route. Monsieur St. Arnaud has
been for camping south of the Balkans, and giving battle to the power
of Russia there, and Raglan has been all for the Crimea and the road
to Sevastopol. And no man has known what to believe amongst the divided
councils of the Allies. The men amongst the vineyards are plucking and
sucking the grapes. The sun grows hotter and hotter, and there is so
dreary a silence in these waiting hours that the angry neigh of a horse
is heard for a mile along the line. Five o'clock when we began to move,
and here is high noon, and impatience all on edge, and nothing done.
The staff comes cantering back, and another hour goes by in silence; and
then from the Highlanders half a mile away on the left of the handful of
cavalry there rises a sound of jubilation. And roun