For was he not?
But all this while I never saw his face.
France was a great sea in storm, on which the lives of all men were as frail boats tossing to their graves: some were blown east, some west: they passed each other in the endless night, and never knew, the tempest blew so strong.
One day there was a bitter strife. It was in the time of our last struggle. We were trying to cut our way through the iron wall that had raised itself round Paris.
We failed, as the world knows, but we strove hard that day. At least all those around me did, and for a little space we saw the granite mass roll back from us, and we thought that we had won.
In that moment, in the white thick shroud of smoke where I pressed forward on foot with my comrades of the line, there came on with us, in a beautiful fierce sweep, like lightning, a troop of horse half out to pieces, with many of its chargers riderless, and with its thinned ranks hidden in clouds of blinding dust.
But shattered though it was, it charged for us: it was one of the southern nobles' free corps of cavalry, the Cuirassiers of Corrèze.
Close against me a grey horse, shot through
