of the face--it was the face of a student--a gentleman--gently born.
And, there in the heat of the fight, he fell to marvelling over the
nation that had such a man to send into the field as a common soldier.

Again they moved forward. Crittenden's Lieutenant dropped--wounded.

"Go on," he cried, "damn it, go on!"

Grafton helped to carry him back, stepping out into the open for him,
and Crittenden saw a bullet lick up the wet earth between the
correspondent's feet.

Forward again! It was a call for volunteers to advance and cut the
wires. Crittenden was the first to spring to his feet, and Abe Long and
Reynolds sprang after him. Forward they slipped on their bellies, and
the men behind saw one brown, knotty hand after another reach up from
the grass and clip, clip, clip through the thickly braided wires.

Forward again! The men slipped like eels through and under the wires,
and lay in the long grass behind. The time was come.

"FORWARD!"

Crittenden never knew before the thrill that blast sent through him, and
never in his life did he know it again.

It was the call of America to the American, white and black: and race
and colour forgotten, the American answered with the grit of the Saxon,
the Celt's pure love of a fight, and all the dash of the passionate
Gaul.