A
republican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of the
wounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench, and
drag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammed
between his ribs; you have not space nor time to extricate it; you are
obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body of
your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be
mortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till gradually
you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating
from you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their
lives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think of
sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet
them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done
your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently
calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a
sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took
them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them.
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