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Someone else had received the rifle containing the blank cartridge, but my mind was at ease, there was no blood of a Tommy on my hands. "Order-Arms! About-Turn! Pile-Anns! Stand-Clear." The stacks were re-formed. "Quick-March! Right-Wheel'" and we left the scene of execution behind us. It was now daylight.
Even her volition seemed wrested from her by reason of the military training of the troop-horse which she rode; he whirled about at the command "right-wheel!" ringing out in the darkness in the crisp peremptory tones of the non-commissioned officer, and plunged forward at the words "trot, march!" and adjusted his muscles instantaneously to the acceleration implied in "gallop!" and came to an abrupt and immovable pause at "halt!" all with no more regard to her grasp on the reins than if she had been a fly on the saddle.
The next moment came the familiar buzz and scream of a great shell, the crash, the squealing fragments, the dust splashing up all round us as they fell. I have never seen men and horses gallop faster than in our rapid right-wheel over the open ground towards a Kaffir kraal. I think only one horse was badly hurt, but at no military tournament have I seen artillery move in such excellent style.
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