hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to
them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle--to come out normal at
dusk. And behind him--erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but
hardly less cool--rode Basil. Crittenden's eyes filled with love and
pride for the boy.

"God bless him--God save him!"

* * * * *

A lull came--one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle
for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing
spell--and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift
passing shower of rain.

There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on
his face behind the low bank with a fervent:

"Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton.

"That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and
presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of
yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close
by.

"That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his
voice--without even lowering his glasses.

Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in
surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve--nor, in that campaign, the