The day had been almost more terrible for the troops who remained unoccupied near the baggage than for those actually engaged in the terrible light. The latter, animated by excitement and anger at their inability to get at the foe, had scarce time to think of their danger, and even laughed and joked in the midst of the hail of bullets, but the watchers had nothing to distract them during the long hours. With their glasses they could plainly see that no advance had been made at any point. To them it seemed incredible that any could come back from that storm of fire. From time to time they learned from wounded men brought up by the bearers, who fearlessly went down into the thick of the fire to do their duty, news of how matters were going on in the front. Gladly, had they received orders to do so, would they have dashed down to try and carry off the guns. Many shed tears of rage as they heard how the Irish strove in vain to cross the deep river, and how many were drowned in their attempts to swim it. They expected, when in the afternoon the troops came in, that they would see an utterly dispirited body of men, and were surprised when the Irish, who were the first to return to camp, marched along smoking their pipes and joking as if they had returned from a day of triumph rather than of failure. They were animated by a knowledge that they had done all that men could do, had proved they were worthy successors of their countrymen who had won glory in so many hard-fought fields, and that no shadow of reproach could fall upon them for their share in the day's work. Although they had suffered far more heavily than the other brigade, they returned more cheerfully. And yet there was no depression anywhere evinced, although there was anger, fierce anger, that they had not been able to get at the enemy, and a grim determination that next time they met, things should go differently.