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Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a field

behind the copse across which our men, regardless of orders, were

running and descending the valley. That moment of moral

hesitation which decides the fate of battles had arrived. Would

this disorderly crowd of soldiers attend to the voice of their

commander, or would they, disregarding him, continue their

flight? Despite his desperate shouts that used to seem so

terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance

distorted out of all likeness to his former self, and the

flourishing of his saber, the soldiers all continued to run,

talking, firing into the air, and disobeying orders. The moral

hesitation which decided the fate of battles was evidently

culminating in a panic.