lley-mouth blew sleety in the faces of the
foe--their eyes, as if darkened with snuff or salt, blinked
bat-like--and with erring aim flew their feckless return to that shower
of frosty fire. Incessant is the silent cannonade of the resistless
School--silent but when shouts proclaim the fall or flight of some
doughty champion in the adverse legion.

See--see--the Sacred Band are broken! The cravens take ignominiously to
flight--and the Mad Dominie and Bob Howie alone are left to bear the
brunt of battle. A dreadful brotherhood! But the bashing balls are
showered upon them right and left from scores of catapultic arms--and
the day is going sore against them, though they fight less like men than
devils. Hurra! the Dominie's down, and Bob staggers. "Guards, up and at
them!" "A simultaneous charge of cocks, hens, and earocks!" No sooner
said than done. Bob Howie is buried--and the whole School is trampling
on its Master!

"Oh, for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died!"

The smothered ban of Bob, and the stifled denunciations of the Dominie,
have echoed o'er the hill, and,

"Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,"

the runaways, shaking the snows of panic from their pows,

"Like dewdrops from the lion's mane,"

come rushing to the rescue. Two of the Six tremble and turn. The high
heroic scorn of their former selves urges four to renew the charge, and
the sound of their feet on the snow is like that of an earthquake. What
bashes on bloody noses! What bungings-up of eyes! Of lips what
slittings! Red is many a spittle! And as the coughing urchin groans, and
claps his hand to his mouth, distained is the snowball that drops
unlaunched at his feet. The School are broken--their hearts die within
them--and--can we trust our blasted eyes?--the white livers show the
white feather, and fly! O shame! O sorrow! O sin! they turn their backs
and fly! Disgraced are the mothers that bore them--and "happy in my
mind," wives and widows, "were ye that died," undoomed to hear the
tidings of this wretched overthrow! Heavens and earth! sixty are flying
before Six!--and half of sixty--oh! that we should record it!--_are
pretending to be dead!!_ Would indeed that the snow were their
winding-sheet, so that it might but hide our dishonour!

Look, we beseech you, at the Mad D