Flag after flag of ours
emerges from the wood, line after line sweeps forth, catching the
sunlight on its burnished arms. The rear battalions alone are in
obedience; they preserve their proper distance from the insurgent front.
The commander has not moved. He now removes his field-glass from his
eyes and glances to the right and left. He sees the human current
flowing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide waves
parted by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking.
Again he directs his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and
awful crest. He addresses a calm word to his bugler. Tra-la-la!
Tra-la-la! The injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. It is
repeated by all the bugles of all the subordinate commanders; the sharp
metallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance, and
penetrate the sound of the cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colors
move slowly back, the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearing
their wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.
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