His face was passive and serene. Contentment shone in
every feature. His martial spirit was stirred by the sights and sounds
of battle, once so familiar to him, but now for forty years unheard.
But the calm demeanour, the quiet voice, the steady, unflinching gaze,
all indicating a noble unconsciousness of danger, were those of the
chance rider in Rotten Row, not of a great commander carrying his own
life and that of thousands in his hand.
The man who came to meet him was a soldier too, but of a different
type, cast in another mould--a Frenchman, emotional, easily excited,
quick in gesture, rapid-speaking, with a restless, fiery eye. St.
Arnaud, too, had long tried the fortunes of war. His was an intrepid,
eager spirit, but he was torn and convulsed with the tortures of a
mortal sickness, and at times, even at this triumphant hour, his face
was drawn and pale with inward agony.
They were near enough, these supreme chiefs, for their conversation,
or parts of it, to be heard around. But they spoke in French, and few
but McKay understood the purport of all they said.
"I am ready to advance at any moment," said Lord Raglan. "I am only
waiting for the development of your attack."
"Bosquet started an hour ago, but he has a tremendous climb up those
cliffs."
It was General Bosquet's business to assault the left of the Russian
position, strong in natural obstacles, and almost inaccessible to
troops.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107