So long as the enemy sticks to the wood all we can do is to wait and
keep our powder dry."

I put my troop under shelter in a small yard, and directed my
non-commissioned officer to keep in touch with me, in case I might
want him. Then I went back to the outskirts of the village to examine
the ground. I then joined my friend S. behind a large heap of faggots:
he commanded the nearest troop of the first squadron, and we could not
help laughing at the curious situation--being formed up for battle,
fronting the enemy, under a hail of bullets, and not able to see
anything.

During the campaign S. had become a philosopher, and he deserved some
credit for it; for the great moral and physical sufferings we had
endured must have been even still more insupportable to him than to
any of us. In the regiment, S. was considered preeminently the Society
officer. He went to all the receptions, all the afternoon teas, all
the bridge parties, all the dinners. He was an adept at tennis and
golf and a first-rate shot. His elegance was proverbial, and the
beautiful cut of his tunics, breeches, jackets, and coats was
universally admired. The way his harness was kept and the shape of his
high boots were a marvel. To say all this is to give some idea of the
change he suddenly experienced in his habits and his tastes during
those demoralising days of retreat and merciless hours of pursuit.
But, in spite of all, he had kept his good humour and never lost his
gay spirits. He still accompanied his talk with elaborate gestures,
and seemed to be just as much at ease behind his heap of wood,
bombarded with bullets, as in the best appointed drawing-room. His
clothes were stained and patched, his beard had begun to grow, and yet
under this rough exterior the polished man of the world could always