The line was reestablished with fresh men, the roll called, the
stragglers were reformed. The Federal commander with a part of his
staff, imperfectly clad, appeared upon the scene, asked a few
questions, looked exceedingly wise and retired. After standing at
arms for an hour the brigade in camp "swore a prayer or two" and went
to bed.

Early the next morning a fatigue-party, commanded by a captain and
accompanied by a surgeon, searched the ground for dead and wounded.
At the fork of the road, a little to one side, they found two bodies
lying close together--that of a Federal officer and that of a
Confederate private. The officer had died of a sword-thrust through
the heart, but not, apparently, until he had inflicted upon his enemy
no fewer than five dreadful wounds. The dead officer lay on his face
in a pool of blood, the weapon still in his breast. They turned him
on his back and the surgeon removed it.

"Gad!" said the captain--"It is Byring!"--adding, with a glance at
the other, "They had a tough tussle."

The surgeon was examining the sword. It was that of a line officer
of Federal infantry--exactly like the one worn by the captain. It
was, in fact, Byring's own. The only other weapon discovered was an
undischarged revolver in the dead officer's belt.

The surgeon laid down the sword and approached the other body. It
was frightfully gashed and stabbed, but there was no blood. He took
hold of the left foot and tried to straighten the leg. In the effort
the body was displaced. The dead do not wish to be moved--it
protested with a faint, sickening odor. Where it had lain were a few