Such an instance is
the following anecdote of heroism, which in the original is quoted in one
of F.W. Robertson's lectures on Poetry.
A detachment of troops was marching along a valley, the cliffs
overhanging which were crested by the enemy. A sergeant, with eleven
men, chanced to become separated from the rest by taking the wrong side
of a ravine, which they expected soon to terminate, but which suddenly
deepened into an impassable chasm. The officer in command signalled to
the party an order to return. They mistook the signal for a command to
charge; the brave fellows answered with a cheer, and charged. At the
summit of the steep mountain was a triangular platform, defended by a
breastwork, behind which were seventy of the foe. On they went, charging
up one of those fearful paths, eleven against seventy. The contest could
not long be doubtful with such odds. One after another they fell; six
upon the spot, the remainder hurled backwards; but not until they had
slain nearly twice their own number.
There is a custom, we are told, amongst the hillsmen, that when a great
chieftain of their own falls in battle, his wrist is bound with a thread
either of red or green, the red denoting the highest rank. According to
custom, they stripped the dead, and threw their bodies over the
precipice.
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