Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 29, 2025
"Britons strike home" thrills through the air, and you scarcely feel that you are spitted by a Polish lancer; a flourish of trumpets, and enter a troop of horse, that trot briskly over you as you lie smashed by a round-shot, but heedless of the exhibition of their unceremonious heels to your injuries, for are you not sustained by that "point of war" mercilessly beaten at your elbow, without the slightest regard to the effect it may have on your cracked head, for which you are indebted to the last trooper who spurred his charger over you: who would care for his vulgar limbs under such excitement?
The next day, the twentieth of February, dawned brightly so brightly indeed that I began to draw from the smiling appearance of the heavens a good augury for the luck of Henri Derblay. It was about eight when I set out. The conscription was to begin at nine, but already the one straggling, narrow street which bisects the old bathing-town was filled with country-people hastening in groups or singly toward the market-place, where the town-hall was situated. The scene presented here was of a most animated kind. The market had some time since begun, and in and out amongst the stalls of the sellers moved a crowd of people of all trades, of all ranks and of all appearances. Fishermen, tradesmen, peasants, soldiers knots of all these were there, some from curiosity or to accompany a friend or relation to the urn; some laughing, some shouting, some drinking, some dancing in a boisterous round to the music of a barrel-organ; some bawling a popular song in a gay, ever-repeated chorus; some raffling for nuts and biscuits at smartly-decked fair-booths, or playing at Chinese billiards for painted mugs or huge cakes of gilt gingerbread; some listening to the stump orations of an extempore fortuneteller, who promised the bâton of the field-marshal to any conscript who would give him a penny; and some buying by yards the patriotic, soul-stirring songs of Béranger, and reciting them in every tone, in every key and to every tune. One of these songsters was a young soldier, a lancer, with a bright intelligent look: he was standing outside a cabaret with several companions, and trolling in a rich, clear voice a melody which seemed thoroughly to spring from his heart. His eye alternately sparkled or dimmed as his words were animated or affecting, and the expression he breathed into his notes was full of feeling and admirably suited to all he sang. The last stanza of his ballad was especially well given, and it seemed so entirely the interpretation of his sentiments that I am sure more than one person in the crowd must have thought that the young soldier was repeating a composition of his own. This was the final strophe: Ah, depuis si longtemps je prolonge mon rêve, La route est commencée, il faut que je l'achève; Il est trop tard pour m'arrêter. Que la gloire m'oublie, ou qu'elle me couronne, Quel que soit mon destin,
I could see in the roadway two lancer vedettes with their black and white pennons, and I knew that when I was once past these I should be a free man once more. I made my pony trot, therefore, Violette rubbing her nose against my knee all the time, and looking up at me to ask how she had deserved that this hairy doormat of a creature should be preferred to her.
Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling. Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual each his own.
When, about a month ago, I had hurriedly to lay my hands on a Commander for the 127th Brigade, I bethought me of Bertie Lawrence, then G.S.O. to the Yeomanry in Egypt. The thrust of a Lancer and the circumspection of a Banker do not usually harbour in the same skull, but I believed I knew of one exception. So I put Lawrence in. By return King's Messenger came a rap over the knuckles.
Ned thought it to be an outburst of anger caused by the return of the wounded lancer. "We stung 'em a little," he panted. "We did," said Obed White. "Remember that when you go out to slay you may be slain. But, Ned, we must reload." They curved about, and darting into a thick clump of bushes put fresh charges in their rifles.
But in the rapidity of the last encounter, and the mounting of my enemy's horse, I had committed a very absurd oversight I was scampering away WITHOUT MY SWORD! What was I to do? to scamper on, to be sure, and trust to the legs of my horse for safety! The lancer behind me gained on me every moment, and I could hear his horrid laugh as he neared me.
Helen!" he shouted, and fell dead on his face, while the lancer, blown half to pieces with musket balls, toppled over beside him, still holding on to his weapon, so that they lay together with that dreadful bond still connecting them. But when the battery opened there was no time for us to think of anything else.
He has long been aware that the Lancer colonel is in love with his young mistress, as much as he himself with her maid. Without this knowledge he might not have been there at least, not with so confident an expectation of success in the design that has brought him hither. For design he has, deep, deadly, and traitorous.
Even as he spoke we heard a rifle crack; and then, after a pause, a second report. We went forward cautiously across a bridge that spanned an arm of the canal, and past a double line of houses, with broken windows, from which no sign or sound of life came. Suddenly at a turn three German privates of a lancer regiment faced us.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking