They retired by squadrons, leisurely, and in good order; but the shells followed them, searching them out and now and then finding them with a deafening racket and cloud of smoke, out of which mangled horses reared, staggered, and rolled over screaming; out of which a rider, here and there was hurled sideways, head first, or sent spinning and headless among his white-faced comrades.

McDunn’s guns had opened now, attempting to extinguish the fire of the troublesome Confederate battery.  Berkley, teeth set, pallid, kept his place in the ranks, and hung to his horse’s head until he got the animal calmed again.  One of his sleeves was covered with blood from a comrade’s horse, blown into fragments beside him.

He could see McDunn’s gunners working methodically amid the vapours steaming back from the battery as it fired by sections; saw the guns jump, buried in smoke; saw the long flames flicker, flicker, flicker through the cannon mist; felt the solid air strike him in the face at each discharge.

Hallam, white as a sheet, stood motionless at the head of his troop; a shell had just burst, but it was as though he dared not look back until Colonel Arran rode slowly over to the stricken company—­and saw Berkley still standing at his horse’s head, and gave him a look that the younger man never forgot.

Again, by troops, the Lancers retired; and again the yelling shells found them, and they retired to the base of a hill.  And came upon a division in full panic.

Over a culvert and down a wooded road troops of all arms were riotously retreating, cavalry, baggage-waggons, battered fragments of infantry regiments, ambulances, all mixed and huddled pell-mell into a headlong retreat that stretched to the rear as far as the eye could see.

Astonished, the Lancers looked on, not understanding, fearful of some tremendous disaster.  A regiment of regular cavalry of the Provost Guard was riding through the fugitives, turning, checking, cutting out, driving, separating the disorganised mob; but it was hard work, and many got away, and teamsters began to cut traces, and skulking cavalrymen clapped spurs and rode over screeching deserters who blocked their path.  It was a squalid sight; the Lancers looked on appalled.

Colonel Arran rode his horse slowly along the front of his regiment, talking quietly to his men.

“It’s only one or two of the raw brigades and a few teamsters and frightened sutlers—­that’s all.  Better that the Provost Guard should let them through; better to sift out that kind of soldier.” . . .  He calmly turned his horse’s head and rode back along the lines of horses and dismounted troopers, commenting reassuringly on what was taking place around them.

“There is never any safety in running away unless your officers order you to run.  The discipline of a regiment is the only security for the individual.  There is every chance of safety as long as a regiment holds together; no chance at all if it disintegrates.