With serene regularity, as if controlled by a schedule, bullets buffed into men.
The youth walked stolidly into the midst of the mob, and with his flag in his hands took a stand as if he expected an attempt to push him to the ground.

He unconsciously assumed the attitude of the color bearer in the fight of the preceding day.

He passed over his brow a hand that trembled.

His breath did not come freely.

He was choking during this small wait for the crisis.
His friend came to him.