A great shout of triumph rose from the men in blue as they saw the
Southern retreat.

"We win! We win!" cried Pennington again.

"Yes, we win!" shouted Warner, usually so cool.

And it did seem even to older men that the triumph was complete. The
blue and the gray were face to face in the smoke, but the gray were
driven back by the fierce and irresistible charge, and, as their flight
became swifter, the shells and grape from the Northern batteries plunged
and tore through their ranks. Nothing stopped the blue wave. It rolled
on and on, sweeping a mass of fugitives before it, and engulfing others.

Dick had no ordered knowledge of the charge. He was a part of it,
and he saw only straight in front of him, but he was conscious that all
around him there was a fiery red mist, and a confused and terrible noise
of shouting and firing. But they were winning! They were beating
Stonewall Jackson himself. His pulses throbbed so hard that he thought
his arteries would burst, and his lips were dry and blackened from smoke,
burned gunpowder and his own hot breath issuing like steam between them.

Then came a halt so sudden and terrible that it shook Dick as if by
physical contact. He looked around in wonder. The charge was spent,
not from its lack of strength but because they had struck an obstacle.
They had reckoned ill, because they had not reckoned upon all the
resources of Stonewall Jackson's mind. He had stemmed the rout in person
and now he was pushing forward the Stonewall Brigade, five regiments,
which always had but two alternatives, to conquer or to die. Hill and