oncealed
valley on a trot, looking behind them, their rear squadron firing
from the saddle in orderly retreat; the Zouaves, powder soiled,
drenched in sweat, bloody, dishevelled, passed to the left of the
battery and lay down.

Then, from far along the stretch of woods, arose a sound,
incessant, high-pitched--a sustained treble cadence, nearer,
nearer, louder, shriller, like the excited cry of a hunting pack,
bursting into a paroxysm of hysterical chorus as a long line of
gray men leaped from the wood's edge and swept headlong toward the
guns.

Berkley felt every nerve in his body leap as his lance fell to a
level with eight hundred other lances; he saw the battery bury
itself in smoke as gun after gun drove its cannister into obscurity
or ripped the smoke with sheets of grape; he saw the Zouaves rise
from the grass, deliver their fire, sink back, rise again while
their front spouted smoke and flame.

The awful roar of the firing to the right deafened him; he caught a
glimpse of squadrons of regular cavalry in the road, slinging
carbines and drawing sabres; a muffled blast of bugles reached his
ears; and the nest moment he was trotting out into the smoke.

After that it was a gallop at full speed; and he remembered nothing
very distinctly, saw nothing clearly, except that, everywhere among
his squadron ran yelling men on foot, shooting, lunging with
bayonets, striking with clubbed rifles. Twice he felt the shocking
impact of his lance point; once he drove the ferruled counterpoise
at a man who went down under his horse's feet. One moment there
was a perfect whirlwind of scarlet pennons flapping around him,
another and he was galloping alone across the grass, lance crossed
from right to left, tugging at his bridle. Then he set the reeking
ferrule in his stirrup boot, slung the shaft from the braided arm
loop, and drew his revolver--the new weapon lately issued, with its
curious fixed ammunition and its cap imbedded.

There were groups of gray infantry in the field, walking, running,
or standing still and firing; groups of lancers and dragoons
trotting here and there, wheeling, galloping furiously at the men
on foot. A number of foot soldiers were crowding around a mixed
company of dragoons and Lancers, striking at them, shooting into
them. He saw the Lieutenant-colonel of his own regiment tumble out
of his saddle; saw Major Lent put his horse to a dead run and ride
over a squad of infantry; saw Colonel Arran