His head was uncovered; his uniform, hurriedly thrown
on, had been torn aside, and his chest was bare; he was drenched with
blood, not his own, that had rained on him as he fought, and his face and
hands were black with smoke and with powder.
Hal could not see a yard in front of him; he could not tell how the day
went anywhere save in that corner where the Lancers were hemmed in. As
fast as they beat the enemy back, and forced themselves to some clearer
space, the Germans closed in afresh.
No orders reached the little troop, and Hal could not tell whether the
Belgian battalions were holding their own or had been cut utterly to
pieces under the immense numerical superiority of their foes.
Glancing about the field, Captain Derevaux could see that every officer
of the Lancers save himself was down, and that, unless he took the vacant
place and rallied them, the few troopers still left would scatter.
With Hal at his side, he spurred the horse he had just mounted against
the dense crowd opposing him--against the hard black wall of dust and
smoke and steel and savage faces, which were all that either could
see. He thrust his horse against the mob, while he waved his sword
above his head:
"_En avant_!" he shouted.
His voice reached the troopers, clear and ringing in its appeal. Hal,
turning in his saddle at this moment, caught from the hands of a reeling
trooper the Eagle of France, and as he raised it aloft, the light,
flashing upon the golden wings, brought an answering shout from those
that remained of the troop.
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