"If glory be a distinction, _for such a man death is not a leveller_!" CHAPTER XXI. TOO LATE. "The storm of fight is hushed; the mingled roar Of charging squadrons swells the blast no more: Gone are the bands of France; the crested pride Of war, which lately clothed the mountain side, Gone--as the winter cloud which tempests bear, In broken shadows through the waste of air." Grey dawn came slowly in, stealing over land and sea, as Quentin rode from the citadel of Corunna. It was difficult to believe that one night--one short night only--filled the interval of time since the fierce excitement of yesterday. Within those few hours how much had happened! Many an eye that met his with a kind smile was sightless now, and many a cheerful and hearty voice with which he was familiar was silenced for ever. When passing through one of the streets, he came suddenly upon Sir John Hope, who now commanded the army, and who said, while reining in his horse, which looked jaded and weary as himself-- "Oh--glad I've seen you, Mr. Kennedy; is your horse fresh?" "Tolerably so, sir," replied Quentin. "Then you will oblige me by riding round by the Santiago road, over the ground where Fraser's division was posted yesterday, before he advanced to support Paget, and bring off any stragglers you may see there. We have not a moment to lose, as the French are getting several guns into position above the San Diego Point, to open on our transports." Without waiting for an answer, and as if his expressed wish was quite sufficient, the general cantered off towards the mole. No way delighted with this duty, in the grey twilight of the morning, Quentin galloped through the Pescadera, quitted the outer fortifications, issued upon the road that led to Santiago de Compostella, and ere long found himself on that which he had now no heart to look upon--the field of battle--that vast sepulchre--that ripe harvest of death and suffering! The dead were there mutilated in every conceivable mode, and lying in every conceivable position; some lay in little piles where the grape had mowed them down. Red-coat and blue-coat, Frank and Briton, the red-trowsered Celt of Gaul and the kilted Celt of Scotland, lay over each other in heaps, many of them yet in the death clutch of each other, but all sleeping peacefully the long, long slumber that knows no waking. It was a sad and terrible homily! Muskets smashed at the stock, swords broken, bayonets bent, caps crushed; belts, plumes, and epaulettes torn; drums broken and bugles trod flat; half-buried shot and exploded shells, strewed all the ground, which was furrowed, torn up, and soaked in blood; trees were barked and lopped by the passing bullets, and hedges were scorched by fire.