Halting a moment to observe the situation,—it had only one eye to observe with—and its tail had been detailed to service elsewhere—it gave the order to advance and—obeyed it.
With no shout of defiance, without champ of bit or clank of saber, but “all in silence deep, unbroken,” it pressed forward at the pas de charge and crossed the frontier. Leaping the Rubicon—a narrow mud puddle—it was on the sacred soil of the West.
This gallant Light Brigade—noble six hundred ounces of dog-flesh—did not slacken speed for an instant, but pushed onward with head and stump of tail up, to within point blank range of the swill-box. It was not perceived by the Army of the West until it was within a couple of yards of the commissary depot; there a shot from a picket gave the alarm and the Army of the West fell into line at once.
The swill-box division made a bayonet charge at the audacious invader, who turned and with depending caudal stump legged it for his native land.
The reserve at the garbage heap advanced in double quick time and things looked rather lively for the invader.
Swift was the flight and swift the pursuit.
The pursuers halted not at the frontier, but in the impetuosity of youth and anger at the insolence of the enemy’s cavalry, they pushed straight on after the flying foe.