Never did Fortune, who brought this, her favorite, from the depths, bring him again in her play so near to the verge of destruction.

When he came upon the field, the battle seemed wholly lost, and the whole world would have cried that he was to blame.
But the bulldog in Grant was never of stauncher breed than on that day.

His face turned white, and he grew sick at the sight of the awful slaughter.

A bullet broke the small sword at his side, but he did not flinch.

Preserving the stern calm that always marked him on the field he began to form his lines anew and strengthen the weaker points.
Yet the condition of his army would have appalled a weaker will.