A strangeness overclouded the senses; mist
wreaths were everywhere, and an uncertainty as to the numbers of
demons.... The cavalry broke. Officers tried to save the situation, to
rally the units, to save all from being borne back. But there was no
helping. Befell a panic flight, and at its heels the Highland rush
streamed into and had its way with Cope's infantry. The battle was won
with a swift and horrible completeness and became a massacre. Not much
quarter was given; much that was horrible was done and seen.
Immoderate victory sat and sang to the white-cockaded army.
Out of the mist-bank before Captain Ian Rullock grew a great horse
with a man upon it of great stature and frame. It came to the Jacobite
like a vision, with a startling and intense reality. He was standing
with his sword drawn; there was a drift of mist, and then there was
the horse and rider--there was Alexander.
He looked down at Ian, and his face was not pale but set. He made a
gesture that seemed full of satisfaction, and would have dismounted
and drawn his sword. But there came a dash of maddened horses and
their riders and a leaping stream of tartaned men. These drove like a
wedge between; his horse wheeled, would leave no more its fellows; the
tide of brute and man bore him away with it. Ian watched all go
fighting by, a moving frieze, out of the mist into the mist.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212