And flags, flags, flags, were streaming in billowy waves of red, white and blue, as far as the eye could reach!
"Isn't that pretty, boys!" Ned sighed admiringly.
Tom lifted his solemn eyes from the grass.
"Lord, Lord, look at them new warm clothes, an' my elbows a-freezin' in this cold wind!"
"Ain't it a picture?"
"What a pity to spile it!"
A ripple of admiration ran along the crouching lines as fingers softly felt for the triggers of their guns.
A quick order from John Vaughan's Colonel sent their battery of artillery rattling and bounding into position. The cannoneers sprang to their mounts. A handsome young fellow missed his foothold and fell beneath the wheels. The big iron tire crushed his neck and the blood from his mouth splashed into John's face. The men on the guns didn't turn their heads to look back. Their eyes were searching the brown hills before them.
The long roll beat from a thousand drums, the call of the buglers rang over the valley—and then the strange, solemn silence that comes before the shock—the moment when cowards collapse and the brave falter.
John Vaughan's soul rose in a fierce challenge to fate. If he died it was well; if he lived it was the same. He had ceased to care.