the advancing splendor.

A few hasty shots, quickly restrained, drew an innocent fire from the
British front rank. The pale, stern men behind the slight defence,
obedient to a strong will, answer not to the quick volley, and nothing
to the audible commands of the advancing columns,--waiting, still.

No painter can make the scene more clear than the recital of sober
deposition, and the record left by survivors of either side. History has
no contradictions to confuse the realities of that momentous tragedy.

The British left wing is near the redoubt. It has only to mount a fresh
earthbank, hardly six feet high, and its clods and sands can almost be
counted,--it is so near, so easy--sure.

Short, crisp, and earnest, low-toned, but felt as an electric pulse, are
the words of Prescott. Warren, by his side, repeats. The words fly
through the impatient lines. The eager fingers give back from the
waiting trigger. "Steady, men." "Wait until you see the white of the
eye." "Not a shot sooner." "Aim at the handsome coats." "Aim at the
waistbands." "Pick off the commanders." "Wait for the word, every
man,--_steady_."

Those plain men, so patient, can already count the buttons, can read the
emblems on the breastplate, can recognize the officers and men whom they
had seen parade on Boston Common. Features grow more distinct. The
silence is awful. The men seem dead--waiting for one word. On the
British right the light infantry gain equal advance just as the left
wing almost touched the redoubt. Moving over more level ground, they
quickly made the greater distance, and passed the line of those who
marched directly up the hill. The grenadiers moved firmly upon the
centre, with equal confidence, and space lessens to that which the
spirit of the impending word defines. That word waits behind the centre
and left wing, as it lingers at breastwork and redoubt. Sharp, clear,
and deadly in tone and essence, it rings forth,--_Fire_!

THE REPULSE.

From redoubt to river, along the whole sweep of devouring flame, the
forms of men wither as in a furnace heat. The whole front goes down. For
an instant the chirp of the cricket and grasshopper in the fresh-mown
hay might almost be heard; then the groans of the wounded, then the
shouts of impatient yeomen who spring forth to pursue, until recalled to
silence and duty. Staggering, but reviving, grand in the glory of their
manhood, heroic in restored self-possession, with steady step in the
fac