As Crittenden leaped to his feet, he saw Reynolds leap, too, and then
there was a hissing hell of white smoke and crackling iron at his
feet--and Reynolds disappeared.

It was a marvel afterward but, at that moment, Crittenden hardly noted
that the poor fellow was blown into a hundred fragments. He was in the
front line now. A Brigadier, with his hat in his hand and his white hair
shining in the sun, run diagonally across in front of his line of
battle, and, with a wild cheer, the run of death began.

God, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, God, how
slow--slow--slow was the run! Crittenden's legs were of lead, and
leaden were the legs of the men with him--running with guns trailing the
earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconsciously. He
saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping
behind him, and the yellow line above, and the haven at the bottom of
the hill. Now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap
into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when
he reached the foot of the hill--Sharpe and a tall Cuban close at his
side with machéte drawn--the one Cuban hero of that fierce charge. But
he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were
coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for
breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and Lieutenant--gasping,
too. To right and left--faint cheers. To the right, a machine gun
playing like hail on the yellow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in
front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling
backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the firing--the
Spaniards were running--and then the top--the top! Sharpe sprang over
the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised