...with the shed blood turning into red mud, and let the blood of its own colour be seen running in a twisting course from the body into the dust. Others, as they die, clench their teeth, roll their eyes, press their fists against their bodies, and twist their legs. One might see a man, disarmed and beaten down by his enemy, turn upon that enemy and, with bites and scratches, take cruel and bitter revenge. You might see some light, riderless horse running with its mane streaming in the wind, galloping among the enemy and doing much harm with its hooves. You would see some crippled man fall to the ground and make a cover of his buckler, while the enemy, bending low, strains to deal him death. One might see many men fallen in a heap upon a dead horse. You will see some of the victors leaving the fight and coming out of the throng, wiping with both hands their eyes and cheeks, which are covered with mud made by the tears the dust has drawn from their eyes. You would see the squadrons of reserve standing full of hope and misgiving, their brows knit, shading them with their hands, and peering through the thick, confused haze, attentive to the captain's command; and likewise the captain, with his baton raised, running toward the reserves to show them the place where they are needed. And some river, with the horses running through it, filling the surrounding water with the turbulence of waves, of foam, and of churned water leaping into the air and among the legs and bodies of the horses. And leave no level place that is not trampled and full of blood.