he retreat of the French grows into a panic.]

FRENCH VOICES [despairingly]

We are betrayed!

[WELLINGTON rides at a gallop to the most salient point of the
English position, halts, and waves his hat as a signal to all
the army. The sign is answered by a cheer along the length of
the line.]

WELLINGTON

No cheering yet, my lads; but bear ahead,
Before the inflamed face of the west out there
Dons blackness. So you'll round your victory!

[The few aides that are left unhurt dart hither and thither with
this message, and the whole English host and it allies advance
in an ordered mass down the hill except some of the artillery,
who cannot get their wheels over the bank of corpses in front.
Trumpets, drums, and bugles resound with the advance.

The streams of French fugitives as they run are cut down and shot
by their pursuers, whose clothes and contracted features are
blackened by smoke and cartridge-biting, and soiled with loam
and blood. Some French blow out their own brains as they fly.
The sun drops below the horizon while the slaughter goes on.]

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Is this the last Esdraelon of a moil
For mortal man's effacement?

SPIRIT IRONIC

Warfare, mere,
Plied by the Managed for the Managers;
To wit: by frenzied folks who profit nought
For those who profit all!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Between the jars
Of these who live, I hear uplift and move
The bones of those who placidly have lain
Within the sacred garths of yon grey fanes--
Nivelles, and Plancenoit, and Braine l'Alleud--
Beneath the unmemoried mounds through deedless years
Their dry jaws quake: "What Sabaoath is this,
That shakes us in our unobtrusive shrouds,
As though our tissues did not yet abhor
The fevered feats of life?"

SPIRIT IRONIC

Mere fancy's feints!
How know the coffined what comes after them,
Even though it whirl them to the Pleiades?--
Turn to the real.

SPIRIT OF RUMOUR

That hatless, smoke-smirched shape
There in the vale, is still the living Ney,
His sabre broken in his hand, his clothes
Slitten with ploughing ball and bayonet,
One epaulette shorn away. He calls out "Follow!"
And a devoted