An elderly man came leaping and cheering, his gun in one hand, a basket of three heads in the other.

A fellow came shot through the forearm.

"It doesn't hurt now," he said, as he bought his cartridges; "but it will hurt to-morrow, and I want to fight while I can." A third followed, a mere boy, with the end of his nose shot off: "Have you any painkiller?
give it me quick, so that I can get back to fight." On either side, there was the same delight in sound and smoke and schoolboy cheering, the same unsophisticated ardour of battle; and the misdirected skirmish proceeded with a din, and was illustrated with traits of bravery that would have fitted a Waterloo or a Sedan.
I have said how little I regard the alleged plan of battle.

At least it was now all gone to water.

The whole forces of Mataafa had leaked out, man by man, village by village, on the so-called false attack.