Then order
seemed, to be restored, for another volley rang out, which passed over
his head as he crouched on the ground. The enemy were advancing slowly,
resolutely. He knew that now there was something different in their
tread.
He was calm and quiet. The mad exhilaration was ebbing and he was
calculating chances as dispassionately as a scientist in his study. Two
shots, the six chambers of his pistol, and then he would be ground to
powder. The moon rode over the top of the cleft and a sudden wave of
light fell on the slope, the writhing dead, and below, the advancing
column. It gave him a chance for fair shooting, and he did not miss.
But the men were maddened with anger and taunts, and they would have
charged a battery. They came up on the slope with a fierce rush,
cursing in gutturals. He slipped behind the old friendly jag of rock
and waited till they were abreast. Then began a strange pistol
practice. Crouching in the darkness he selected his men and shot them,
making no mistake. The front ranks of the column turned to the right
and lunged with their bayonets into the gloom. But the man knew his
purpose. He climbed farther back till he was above their heads, looking
down on ranks of white inhuman faces mad with slaughter and the courage
which is next door to fear. They were still advancing, but with an
uncertain air. He saw his chance and took it.
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