"Burnside must think there's but a small force here," said Dalton,
"or he wouldn't send so few men against us. Harry, when I look down at
those brigades of Yankees I think of the old Roman salute--it was that
of the gladiators, wasn't it?--'Morituri salutamus.'"

"They're doomed," said Harry.

Jackson, like the others, had dismounted, and he walked forward with
a single aide to observe more closely the Union advance. A Northern
sharpshooter suddenly rose out of high weeds, not far in front, and
fired directly at them. The bullet whistled between Jackson and his
aide. Jackson turned to the young man and said:

"Suppose you go to the rear. You might get shot."

The young man, of course, did not go, and Harry, who was not far behind
them in an earthwork, watched them with painful anxiety. He had seen
the sudden uprising of the Northern skirmisher in the weeds and the
flame from the muzzle. The man might not have known that it was Jackson,
but he must have surmised from the gorgeous uniform that it was a
general of importance.

Harry, with the trained eye of a country boy, saw a rippling movement
running among the weeds. The sharpshooter would reload and fire upon
his general from another point. The second bullet might not miss.

But the second shot did not come. The marksman, doubtless thinking that
another shot was too dangerous a hazard, had retreated into the plain.
General Jackson walked on calmly, inspecting the whole Northern advance,