of deep strokes around him on the sand. 'Right!' cried the captain, beaming. 'Now the Frenchmen cut into the square; the ranks break, but join again; the cavalry wheels away and gathers for a fresh attack. Wellington has every moment to surround himself with a new square. The French cavalry fight like lions; the proud memories of the Emperor's campaigns fill them with that confidence of victory which made his armies invincible. They fight for victory, for glory, for the French eagles, and for the little cold man who, they know, stands on the height behind them, whose eye follows every single man, who sees all and forgets nothing; but today they have an enemy who is not easy to deal with. They stand where they stand, these Englishmen, and if they are forced to step backwards, they regain their position the next moment. They have no eagles and no Emperor, and when they fight they think neither of military glory nor of revenge; but they think of home. The thought of never seeing again the oak-trees of Old England is the most melancholy an Englishman knows. Ah, no, there is one which is still worse—that of coming home dishonoured. And when they think that the proud fleet, which they know is lying to the northward waiting for them, would deny them the honour of a salute, and that Old England would not recognise her sons, then they grip their muskets tighter, they forget their wounds and their flowing blood; silent
