impatient soldiers. Fifteen seconds--twenty seconds--thirty
seconds--for--ty-five seconds--six--ty!

"Carry swords," in a serene and conversational voice remarked the young
subaltern; equally smoothly and quietly came the order, "Walk, march."
Then, as the troop moved forward, followed the slightly more animated
command, "Trot"; and as the excitement of coming conflict coursed with
the wild exuberance of youth through the boy's veins, "Gallop! Charge!"
he yelled, and back came an answering shout, "Fear not, Sahib, we are
with you!" And thus was launched on the flood of death a little band of
heroes, that they might save an army.

But ever since the day when David slew Goliath, the God of Battles has
not always sided with the big battalions. A few staunch hearts hurled
fearlessly at the foe may still, like the ancient slinger's stone, lay
low the giant. So on this occasion the effect of the bold attack was
magical. Through the thin line of skirmishers, heedless of the
spluttering fire, went the troop, like a round shot through a paper
screen, and fell like yelling furies on the clumps of swordsmen,
pikemen, and any-weapon-men, who formed the supports. These they killed
and wounded and scattered like chaff to the wind. And then,--their
mission was accomplished! The enemy's advancing masses wavered, halted,
hesitation and dismay replacing the confident sling-trot of a few
minutes before. The surprise had failed, the camp was saved. Then
Hardinge, his work accomplished, himself sore wounded, the enemy's
standard in his hands, rallied his pursuing troop, and clearing to a
flank left displayed the British force drawn up and ready to receive all
comers.

To see the right moment and to seize it, to balance the profit and loss,