He wanted a great victory, and he wanted it at once.
His eyes suddenly caught a gleam on the crest of Defiance.

A bit of red flashed among the trees.

He thought it was the uniform of a British soldier, and his heart beat hard.

The army was surely advancing, the attack would be made, and the victory would be won that day, not on the morrow nor next week, but before the sun set.
The blood pounded in his temples.

He looked at the French.