Centuries hence, we Frenchmen and
Englishmen might be boasting and killing each other still,
carrying out bravely the Devil's code of honor.
All our friends took their share, and fought like men in the great
field. All day long, while the women were praying ten miles away,
the lines of the dauntless English infantry were receiving and repelling
the furious charges of the French horsemen. Guns which were heard in
Brussels were ploughing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and the
resolute survivors closing in. Towards evening, the attack of the
French, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury.
They had other foes besides the British to engage, or were preparing for
a final onset. It came at last; the columns of the Imperial Guard
marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day and spite of
all; unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death from
the English line,---the dark rolling column pressed on and up the hill.
It seemed almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave and
falter.
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