there a pale, contorted face was raised to heaven, the mouth open in
a cry I could not hear. Here and there, a man stood upright and
struggled forward, only to slip down into what seemed a sea of
primeval slime. And they were armed—or rather, had been, for the
weak, rainy sunlight was striking on an occasional musket which its
bearer tried to keep above the sucking mud. One brave soul waved a
sword—and another, a pitchfork. What sort of army was this?