the doings at West Inch, which had
ended by bringing us here on the plains of Belgium as a cockshot for two
hundred and fifty cannons.

During all this time the roaring of those guns had been something
dreadful to listen to, but now they suddenly died away, though it was
like the lull in a thunderstorm when one feels that a worse crash is
coming hard at the fringe of it. There was still a mighty noise on the
distant wing, where the Prussians were pushing their way onwards, but
that was two miles away. The other batteries, both French and English,
were silent, and the smoke cleared so that the armies could see a little
of each other. It was a dreary sight along our ridge, for there seemed
to be just a few scattered knots of red and the lines of green where the
German Legion stood, while the masses of the French appeared to be as
thick as ever, though of course we knew that they must have lost many
thousands in these attacks. We heard a great cheering and shouting from
among them, and then suddenly all their batteries opened together with a
roar which made the din of the earlier part seem nothing in comparison.
It might well be twice as loud, for every battery was twice as near,
being moved right up to point blank range, with huge masses of horse
between and behind them to guard them from attack.

When that devil's roar burst upon our ears there was not a man, down to
the drummer boys, who did not understand what it meant. It was
Napoleon's last great effort to crush us. There were but two more hours
of light, and if we could hold our own for those all would be well.
Starved and weary and spent, we prayed that we might have strength to
load and stab and fire while one of us stood upon his feet.

His cannon could do us no great hurt now, for we were on our faces, and
in an instant we could turn into a huddle of bayonets if his horse came
down again. But behind the thunder of the guns there rose a sharper,
shriller noise, whirring and rattling, the wildest, jauntiest, most
stirring kind of sound.

"It's the _pas-de-charge!_" cried an officer. "They mean business this
time!"

And as he spoke we saw a strange thing. A Frenchman, dressed as an
officer of hussars, came galloping towards us on a little bay horse.
He was screeching "_Vive le roi! Vive le roi!_" at the pitch of his
lungs, which was as much as to say that he was a deserter, since we were
for the king and they for the emperor. As he passed us he roar