Nor was this all. General Paget, with his Reserve, advanced upon the column, and doubled it completely up.
Roy had his chance then, and he used it. His was the honour of bearing the King's Colour belonging to his regiment. The Royal and the Regimental Colours are, as we know, always consecrated with religious ceremony at the time of presentation; and they are looked upon with the most intense pride and veneration by every British soldier. Not least were they so regarded by Roy Baron.
Right proudly he carried his Royal burden, exposing himself with all that reckless gallantry which is natural to the British officer. He pressed forward with an energy which carried him well to the front, even in that rushing tide of resolute men. They clashed with the solid column in fierce shock; and by "the conquering violence" of Paget's charge, the French, already shaken by the heavy flanking fire they had received, were brought to a standstill. They began to waver, to turn, and to retreat; and the retreat soon quickened into flight.
Yet the fighting continued; and as the British still swept like a whirlwind onward, groups of Frenchmen would turn and resist, vainly striving to stem that irresistible Anglo-Saxon torrent.
Roy found himself and his charge an object of especial attack by some half-dozen furious Frenchmen, maddened to be once again, as through the fortnight past, repelled by this invincible foe. All around Roy were fighting hard. He gripped the staff with his left hand, and guarded it valiantly, using his sword right and left to very good purpose. Mere lad though he was, more than one of the enemy went down before those vigorous thrusts.
With the vain hope of capturing the Colour, a French officer rode into the mêlée, and his sabre descended in one swift sweep. Roy saw the coming stroke, but his guard was only in time to ward off the blow aimed at his head.
The blade slashed deep into his right arm, near the shoulder, and Roy's sword fell from powerless fingers.
By this time a dozen comrades had closed round the Colour, and a dozen British swords and bayonets were at work. The French officer paid for his gallantry with his life. Roy was again pressing onward, hardly realising that he was wounded, till he found a crimson stream flowing over him, and felt his knees falter with a sense of overpowering weakness.
"Go back, Baron. You've done bravely," the Colonel's voice said at his side, in tones of approval. "Sergeant Grey will take the colour."
Roy tried to say cheerily, "No, sir, it's nothing—I'm all right—" but the words somehow refused to come, and the battlefield seemed to be receding to a vast distance. He was vaguely conscious that his precious burden had gone into somebody else's hands, and that the regiment had passed on at the double, leaving him behind. Then he came out of a mist, his ears buzzing, and his head going round.