FROM BATTLE TO LOVE
Now it was our turn. The troopers were battling with the horses, restive from their long night's quiet, excited by the firing, the four I held struggling at the rein furiously, my mount rearing as if about to throw himself backward.
"Forward!" I cried, my voice barely audible above the hubbub of hoofs. "Hold them to it, boys!"
The others met us at the corner of the house, the daylight sufficient by now to make identity certain; slinging their carbines, they grasped the nearest reins and sprung up into the saddles. It was seemingly the work of an instant, and, in another, Masterson and myself had forced them into irregular line; the rearing, plunging horses were brought under control, the faces of the men showing eager and alert in the gray dawn. They felt the straining bodies between their legs, and all the joy of the cavalry service was in their hearts. They could fight now in their own way—with the reckless dash of the trooper.
"Any one hurt, Corporal?"
"No, sir; it was an easy job."
"Your men here, O'Brien?"
"Ivery wan, sor."
"All right; draw revolvers; forward march; trot."
We swept down the broad driveway in two lines, the men widening their distances so as to give room for sabre play when necessary, Masterson and I slightly in advance. The gray dawn already revealed our surroundings clearly; the ash-covered roadway, the bushes along its edge, the row of trees beyond, a long tobacco shed at the left, the half-open gate almost directly in front. We might have
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