CHAPTER XXXV.
THE STORMING OF CIUDAD RODRIGO.
Whatever the levity of the previous moment, the scene before us now repressed it effectually.

The deep-toned bell of the cathedral tolled seven, and scarcely were its notes dying away in the distance, when the march of the columns was heard stealing along the ground.

A low murmuring whisper ran along the advanced files of the forlorn hope; stocks were loosened; packs and knapsacks thrown to the ground; each man pressed his cap more firmly down upon his brow, and with lip compressed and steadfast eye, waited for the word to move.
It came at last: the word "March!" passed in whispers from rank to rank, and the dark mass moved on.

What a moment was that as we advanced to the foot of the breach! The consciousness that at the same instant, from different points of that vast plain, similar parties were moving on; the feeling that at a word the flame of the artillery and the flash of steel would spring from that dense cloud, and death and carnage, in every shape our imagination can conceive, be dealt on all sides; the hurried, fitful thought of home; the years long past compressed into one minute's space; the last adieu of all we've loved, mingling with the muttered prayer to Heaven, while, high above all, the deep pervading sense that earth has no temptation strong enough to turn us from that path whose ending must be a sepulchre! Each heart was too full for words.

We followed noiselessly along the turf, the dark figure of our leader guiding us through the gloom.