The cloud over the place where the slaughtered recruits lay
thickened, but the Mexicans never ceased to fire into it with their
rifles and muskets. The crackling of the weapons beat incessantly upon
the drums of his ears. Mingled with it were the cries and groans of the
victims, now fast growing fewer. But it was all a blurred and red
vision to Ned. While he was in that deadly volcano he moved by instinct
and impulse and not by reason.
A few of the unwounded had already dashed from the smoke and had
undertaken flight across the plain, away from the Mexican infantry,
where they were slain by the lances or muskets of the cavalry under
Urrea. Ned followed them. A lancer thrust so savagely at him that when
the boy sprang aside the lance was hurled from his hand. Ned's foot
struck against the weapon, and instantly he picked it up. A horseman on
his right was aiming a musket at him, and, using the lance as a long
club, he struck furiously at the Mexican. The heavy butt landed squarely
upon the man's head, and shattered it like an eggshell. Youthful and
humane, Ned nevertheless felt a savage joy when the man's skull crashed
beneath his blow.
It is true that he was quite mad for the moment.
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