They were tramping
. . . tramping . . . tramping! Some marches had lasted thirty hours at
a stretch. The enemy was on their tracks, and the order was to go on
and not to fight, freeing themselves by their fleet-footedness from the
involved movements of the invader.
The chiefs suspected the discouraged exhaustion of their men. They might
exact of them complete sacrifice of life--but to order them to march day
and night, forever fleeing before the enemy when they did not consider
themselves vanquished, when they were animated by that ferocious wrath
which is the mother of heroism! . . . Their despairing expressions
mutely sought the nearest officers, the leaders, even the colonel. They
simply could go no further! Such a long, devastating march in such a few
days, and what for? . . . The superior officers, who knew no more
than their men, seemed to be replying with their eyes, as though they
possessed a secret--"Courage! One more effort! . . . This is going to
come to an end very soon."
The vigorous beasts, having no imagination, were resisting less than the
men, but their aspect was deplorable. How could these be the same strong
horses with glossy coats that he had seen in the Paris processions at
the beginning of the previous month? A campaign of twenty days had aged
and exhausted them; their dull gaze seemed to be imploring pity.
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