The last ounce had gone long ago.

Many of them, though still marching and at times firing, were in a mere daze.
The roads swam past them in a dark blur and more than one babbled of things at home.
It would soon be day and there was Winchester, where the kin of so many of them lived, that Winchester they had left once, but to which they were now coming back as conquerors, conquerors whose like had not been seen since the young Napoleon led his republican troops to the conquest of Italy.

No, those French men were not as good as they.

They could not march so long and over such roads.

They could not march all day and all night, too, fighting and driving armies of brave men before them as they fought.