Lord of Sabaoth, with Thee is no distinction in helping in great things
or in small. We are going now, at the orders of our commanders, to do
battle in the field with our enemies. Let us give proof of Thy might
and honour. Help us, Lord our God, for we trust in Thee, and in Thy
name we go forth against the enemy. Lord Christ, Thou hast said, "I am
with thee in the hour of need; I will pull thee out, and place thee in
an honourable place." Bethink Thee, Lord, of Thy word, and remember Thy
promise. Come to our aid when we are sore pressed, when the close
grapple is imminent, when the enemy overmatches us, and we have been
surrounded by them. Stand by us in need, for the aid of man is of no
avail. Through Thee we will vanquish our enemies, and in Thy name we
will tread under the foot those who have set themselves in array
against us. They trust in their own might, and are puffed up with
pride; but we put our trust in the Almighty God, who, without one
stroke of the sword, canst smite into the dust not only those who are
now formed up against us, but also the whole world. God, we await on
Thy goodness. Blessed are those who put their trust in Thee. Help us,
that our enemies may not get the better of us, and wax triumphant in
their might; but strike disorder into their ranks, and smite them
before our eyes, so that we may overwhelm them. Show us Thy goodness,
Thou Saviour, of those who trust in Thee. Art Thou not God the Lord
unto us who are called after Thy name? So be gracious unto us, and take
us--life and soul--under the protection of Thy grace. And since Thou
only knowest what is good for us, so we commend ourselves unto Thee
without reserve, be it for life or for death. Let us live comforted;
let us fight and endure comforted; let us die comforted, for Jesus
Christ, Thy dear Son's sake. Amen.
Alvensleben is sitting on his horse on the little hillock behind the
hamlet of Flavigny, pulling his gray moustache, and praying that he
might see the _Spitze_ of Barneckow's division show itself on the edge
of the plain up from out the glen of Gorze. Rheinbaben's cavalry are
half of them down, the other half of them are rallying for another
charge to save the German centre. Hans is in the wood to the north of
Tronville, helping to keep back Leboeuf from swamping the left flank.
The shells from the French artillery on the Roman Road are crashing
into the wood. The bark is jagged by the slashes of venomous chassepot
bullets. Twice has Ladmirault come raging down from the heights of
Bruville, twice has he been sent staggering back. Now, with strong
reinforcements, he is preparing for a third assault. Meanwhile there is
a lull in the battle. Hans, grimed and powder-blackened, may let the
breech of his _Zündnadelgewehr_ cool and may wipe his blood-stained
bayonet on the forest moss. He has a moment for a glance into the
little gray volume, and it opens in his blackened fingers at the prayer