It had not seemed possible to them in those last triumphant days that they could fail, but now Paris was receding farther and farther from their grasp.
John recovered a certain degree of coolness.

The fire of the foe was turned away from them for the present, and, finding that the glasses thrown over his shoulder, had not been injured by his fall, he examined the battle front as he stood by the side of Bougainville.

The country was fairly open here and along a range of miles the cannon in hundreds and hundreds were pouring forth destruction.

Yet the line, save where the angle had been crushed by the rush of Bougainville's regiment, stood fast, and John shuddered at thought of the frightful slaughter, needed to drive it back, if it could be driven back at all.
Then he glanced at the fields across which they had come.

For two or three miles they were sprinkled with the fallen, the red and blue of the French uniform showing vividly against the green grass.