To the
left the plaid kilts and mixed uniforms of the Highlanders, to the
right a rigid, regimented sea of Red. She watched them draw together
with the uncomprehending horror that every woman feels for war,
unmoved by words of glory and patriotism, understanding only that men,
men dear to herself and others, are about to die.
It seemed that the Scots would reach the object first, being the
swifter and on their own ground; but suddenly they stopped. At their
head she saw two men on horseback: a rugged, wizened general, and a
handsome young prince with long plumes in his hat, seated on a
brilliant white charger. The general was arguing and gesticulating
sharply that they must advance and attack. But the Prince, with an air
of supreme confidence and divine understanding, only made a sign of
the cross and remained where he was, content.
The British halted and formed ranks, expecting a charge. But not
receiving it, and perceiving their opponent's hesitation, they quickly
brought their artillery to the fore. Unlimbering the cannon, they
loaded and took aim, and began to shower the unmoving Highlanders with
grapeshot and thundering shells.
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