There was a
scuffle, a wild melee. To the trembling spectator, it seemed as though
the world had fallen into profound silence. The yells of the combatants,
the thud of colliding bodies, the clang of arms seemed as nothing after
the cannon had quieted down. He saw men pierced through the middle by
gun points whose reddened ends came out through their kidneys; muskets
raining hammer-like blows, adversaries that grappled in hand-to-hand
tussles, rolling over and over on the ground, trying to gain the
advantage by kicks and bites.
The mustard-colored fronts had entirely disappeared, and he now saw only
backs of that color fleeing toward the exit, filtering among the trees,
falling midway in their flight when hit by the pursuing balls. Many
of the invaders were unable to chase the fugitives because they were
occupied in repelling with rude thrusts of their bayonets the bodies
falling upon them in agonizing convulsions.
Don Marcelo suddenly found himself in the very thick of these mortal
combats, jumping up and down like a child, waving his hands and shouting
with all his might. When he came to himself again, he was hugging
the grimy head of a young French officer who was looking at him in
astonishment. He probably thought him crazy on receiving his kisses, on
hearing his incoherent torrent of words. Emotionally exhausted, the worn
old man continued to weep after the officer had freed himself with a
jerk.
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