“Here, you of the Sixth Company! Devils that you are! Lend a hand⁠ ⁠… will you? You may want us one of these days.”

Some twenty men of the Sixth Company who were on their way into the village joined the haulers, and the wattle wall, which was about thirty-five feet long and seven feet high, moved forward along the village street, swaying, pressing upon and cutting the shoulders of the gasping men.

“Get along⁠ ⁠… Falling? What are you stopping for? There now.⁠ ⁠…”

Merry senseless words of abuse flowed freely.

“What are you up to?” suddenly came the authoritative voice of a sergeant major who came upon the men who were hauling their burden. “There are gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you foul-mouthed devils, you brutes, I’ll give it to you!” shouted he, hitting the first man who came in his way a swinging blow on the back. “Can’t you make less noise?”