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after his men through the heavy oak brushwood on the hill, sword in hand, holster loosened on his pistol, cursing volubly. The Russian masses were still fleeing and showing no immediate sign of standing and reforming. But even so it was dangerous to pursue and leave the Sandbag Battery above them defended by only a small remnant of the Guards. There were other Russian columns still up on the heights and constantly resuming their push forward. He must round up his men, and anyone else's men he happened to run into for that matter, and herd them back up the hill—at sword point if necessary. Heads would roll for this.
    Matters were not improved by the fact that the remains of the morning fog combined with the smoke from the guns made all about him almost invisible. And yet in the course of ten minutes or so he had dozens of men toiling back up the hill, and he constantly ran into other men, singly, in pairs, and in small groups, and sent them on their way with blistering curses and menacing sword.
    His was not the only waving sword. Suddenly through the smoke and the fog he came across two men, one prone on the ground, the other with a booted foot on his chest and his sword poised to run him through.
    "Don't kill him! Take him prisoner." David had snapped out the order even as his brain was interpreting the scene before his eyes.
    Both men were British. Captain Scherer was the one down. Julian was about to kill him.
    "For the love of God, stop!" David bellowed as Julian turned his head sharply in his direction. "Have you gone mad?"
    "Stay out of this, Dave." Julian's voice was harsh and nearly unrecognizable. His eyes were wild with the savage blood lust of battle. "This is none of your concern." And his sword flashed downward.
    David heard a shot. Above the constant roar and the deafening thunder of guns from across the battle field, he heard a single shot and watched Julian look back at
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    him, surprise in his eyes, before crumpling at the knees and pitching forward across the body of Captain Scherer.
    David looked down blankly at the pistol in his hand.

    Shrouded in smoke and fog, the moment seemed unreal. This time and this place seemed to bear no relationship to the deadly battle that was raging above and all around. And no relationship to anything else for that matter. The battle and all else were forgotten.
    "The devil!" The shaking voice belonged to Captain Scherer. "He was demented, Major. I would be dead if it were not for you. I owe my life to you." He was pushing at the body that had fallen across his own.
    David watched a steady hand return his pistol to its holster and felt someone's leaden legs carry him across the distance to the two entangled bodies. He turned Julian's over gently and glanced at the small deadly blood-outlined hole just above his heart. He touched three fingers to Julian's neck. There was no pulse.
    "He's dead," he said to no one in particular.
    Captain Scherer was struggling to his feet, clutching his bloodied sword arm. "You had no choice, sir," he said, his voice aggrieved,
    "other than to watch him kill a brother officer in cold blood. You had no choice."
    "Julian." David's lips formed the name, but it was doubtful that anyone would have heard even without the din of the guns.
    "He died in battle," Captain Scherer said harshly. "A hero's death, sir. Shot by a fleeing Russian. They are calling, sir."
    Three Russian battalions were advancing along the heights above them, cutting them off from the remaining Grenadiers at the Battery with the Duke of Cambridge and the Colors. Voices were yelling at all those left on the slopes of the Kitspur to get back up.
    They might never have made it if the French had not come to their rescue as they fought their way through the Russian columns to the Colors and then continued to fight forward with the remaining Guards to take the colors and themselves to the safety of higher ground. But the French came in the nick of time and drove the columns