Hour after hour the fighting had continued under a
shadowless sky, blue as steel, hard as a sheet of brass. The Germans had
attacked the Belgians and French with the first streak of light.
Circling, sweeping, silently, swiftly, a marvelous whirlwind of force,
the Germans had rushed on. Swift, as though wind-driven, they moved. An
instant, and the Allies broke into violent movement. Half-clothed
sleepers poured out. Perfect discipline did the rest.
With marvelous and matchless swiftness and precision they got under arms.
There were but fifteen hundred or so in all--six squadrons of French
Lancers, the only French troops yet to reach Belgian soil, and a small
body of infantry, without artillery.
Yet, rapid as the action of the Allies was, it was not as rapid as the
downward sweep of the German horde that rushed to meet them.
There was a crash, as if rock were hurled upon rock, as the Lancers, the
flower of the French cavalry, scarce seated in the saddle, rushed forward
to save the pickets, to encounter the first blind ford of the attack and
to give the Belgian infantry, farther in, time to prepare for defense.
The hoofs of rearing chargers struck each other's breasts, and these bit
and tore at each other's throats and manes, while their riders reeled
down dead. The outer wings of the Germans were spared the shock, and
swept on to meet the bayonets of the infantry.
The cavalry was enveloped in the overwhelming numbers of the center.
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