It was now half-past two, and blended
with the moonbeams was a peculiar whiteness, which rendered the whole
aspect of my surroundings indescribably dreary and ghostly. Feeling
cold and hungry, I set to work on my beef sandwiches, and was
religiously separating the fat from the lean, for I am one of those
foolish people who detest fat, when a loud rustling made me look up.
Confronting me, on the opposite side of the road, was a tree, an ash,
and to my surprise, despite the fact that the breeze had fallen and
there was scarcely a breath of wind, the tree swayed violently to and
fro, whilst there proceeded from it the most dreadful moanings and
groanings. I was so terrified that I caught hold of my bicycle and
tried to mount, but I was obliged to desist as I had not a particle of
strength in my limbs. Then to assure myself the moving of the tree was
not an illusion, I rubbed my eyes, pinched myself, called aloud; but
it made no difference--the rustling, bending, and tossing still
continued. Summing up courage, I stepped into the road to get a closer
view, when to my horror my feet kicked against something, and, on
looking down, I perceived the body of an English soldier, with a
ghastly wound in his chest. I gazed around, and there, on all sides of
me, from one end of the valley to the other, lay dozens of
bodies,--bodies of men and horses,--Highlanders and English,
white-cheeked, lurid eyes, and bloody-browed,--a hotch-potch of livid,
gory awfulness.
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