controlled by a few men left behind by the enemy to inflict the greatest
possible damage before discovery and capture. They had done their work
well, for, concealed in the roof of a house, they had swept the street
at point-blank range and literally mown down a whole company before they
had been located, and "put out of action." Still they must have been
brave men, for the personal result of such an exploit is certain death.

The state of that street had better not be described. The Aftermath of
Battle! It is depressing, cold and passionless, dirty and bloody; the
electricity of life has gone from the air, and the wine of life-blood is
spilt, it seems, so needlessly upon the ground. Perhaps the spirits of
the dead linger over it. Their presence is instinctively felt. As,
overpowered with the sorrow of it, you pass by, the thought steals into
your mind, "When will my turn come?" This Aftermath of Battle is
assuredly the most awful thing in war.

As soon as the men began to scale the steep incline opposite, they saw
that the costs had not been paid by the British alone. Figures, covered
in most cases by their own grey overcoats, lay out upon the ground.
Leaning up against a wall a body was still lolling. It was a sight that
no one who saw it will ever forget. There was no head; it had been shorn
oft as cleanly as if the man had been guillotined. An unburst shell had
probably swept the man's head from his shoulders as he looked over the
wall, and the aimless-looking trunk was still leaning against the wall
as if "waiting for further orders."

The pursuit was continued until it was quite dark. The Companies wheeled
into the fields, and slept where they stood. The Colonel delivered a
short address, which showed that all was not as well as it looked. But
what really _did_ worry them was lack of straw. The Colonel was of the