'Friends,' he will say; 'dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of Vendean royalists,' and then the gallant fellow rushes into the trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting 'Vive le Roi!' and you, Momont, are one of the first.

All of a sudden, as you are just in motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air passes close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you can hardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble; your next neighbour and three men behind him have been sent into eternity by a cannon-ball from the enemy.

Do you think then that the man who fired the cannon knows, or cares who he has killed?
Well, on you go; had you not been in a crowd, the enemy's fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but good company makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench.
You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is already nearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above your head; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a republican passes through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or perhaps upon your head.

You feel your heart shudder, and your blood runs cold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if you would, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping your musket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods.

Your eyes and mouth are crammed with dust, your face is bespattered with your comrade's blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very nature changes within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel like a beast of prey.