men, and the roaring of the officers. And then, suddenly, they began to
give ground--slowly, sullenly, step by step, but still to give ground.
Ah! it was worth all that we had gone through, the thrill of that
moment, when we felt that they were going to break. There was one
Frenchman before me, a sharp-faced, dark-eyed man, who was loading and
firing as quietly as if he were at practice, dwelling upon his aim, and
looking round first to try and pick off an officer. I remember that it
struck me that to kill so cool a man as that would be a good service,
and I rushed at him and drove my bayonet into him. He turned as I
struck him and fired full into my face, and the bullet left a weal
across my cheek which will mark me to my dying day. I tripped over him
as he fell, and two others tumbling over me I was half smothered in the
heap. When at last I struggled out, and cleared my eyes, which were
half full of powder, I saw that the column had fairly broken, and was
shredding into groups of men, who were either running for their lives or
were fighting back to back in a vain attempt to check the brigade, which
was still sweeping onwards. My face felt as if a red-hot iron had been
laid across it; but I had the use of my limbs, so jumping over the
litter of dead and mangled men, I scampered after my regiment, and fell
in upon the right flank.

Old Major Elliott was there, limping along, for his horse had been shot,
but none the worse in himself. He saw me come up, and nodded, but it
was too busy a time for words. The brigade was still advancing, but the
general rode in front of me with his chin upon his shoulder, looking
back at the British position.

"There is no general advance," said he; "but I'm not going back."

"The Duke of Wellington has won a great victory," cried the