We'll get a chance at their mounted infantry yet.

All in God's time, boys.

Never doubt it." The bugle-horns of the Legion were now sounding their derisive, fox-hunting calls, and behind us we could hear the far laughter and shouting: "Yoicks! Forrard! Stole away--stole away!" My cheeks began to burn; Boyd gnawed his lips continually, and I saw our dragoons turning angrily in their saddles as they understood the insult of the British trumpets.
Half a mile farther on there ran a sandy, narrow cross road into the woods on either side of us.
The captain drew bridle, stood up in his stirrups, and looked back.

For some time, now, the taunting trumpets had not jeered us, and the pursuit seemed to have slackened after nearly three hard miles of running.

But they still followed us, though it was some minutes before their red jackets came bobbing up again over the sandy crest of the hill behind us.
All our men who had been looking back were now wheeled; and we divided, half backing into the sandy road to the right, half taking the left-hand road under command of Lieutenant Boyd.
"They are not too many," said the dragoon captain coolly, beckoning to his little bugle-horn.
Willows hid us until their advanced troopers were close to where we sat--so close that one of our excited dragoons, spurring suddenly forward into the main road, beat down a Hussar's guard, flung his arms around him, and tore him from his saddle.