He had burst through the half-troop guarding the upper end of the defile, had left them red and reeling to count their dead, and the overfolding hill-spurs swallowed him.
"Mr.Cunningham! Take your troop, please, and find their chief! Hunt him out, ride him down, and get him! Don't come back until you do!" The real thing! The real red thing within a year! A lone command--and that is the only thing a subaltern of spunk may pray for!--eighty-and-eight hawk-eyed troopers asking only for the opportunity to show their worth--lean, hungry hills to hunt in, no commissariat, fair law to the quarry, and a fight--as sure as God made mountains, a fight at the other end! There are men here and there who think that the day when they pass down a crowded aisle with Her is the great one, other great days are all as gas-jets to the sun.

And there are others.

There are men, like Cunningham, who have heard the drumming of the hoofs behind them as they led their first un-apron-stringed unit out into the unknown.

The one kind of man has tasted honey, but the other knows what fed, and feeds, the roaring sportsmen in Valhalla.
There were crisscross trails, where low-hung clouds swept curtainwise to make the compass seem like a lie-begotten trick.

There were gorges, hewn when the Titans needed dirt to build the awful Himalayas--shadow-darkened--sheer as the edge of Nemesis.