through which bayonets and faces of men showed, ever coming
nearer.

Now the North was sure of victory. The shouts of joy ran up and down
their whole front. The batteries were pushed nearer and nearer, and
sent in terrible volleys at short range. The riflemen who had done
such deadly work rose from the woods and thickets, and rushed forward,
loading and firing as they came. The Southern force seemed to be nothing
but a hopeless mass of fugitives.

Anyone save Jackson would have despaired even of saving his army. But
he dreamed yet of victory. He galloped back for a strong detachment of
Virginians who had not yet come upon the field, but could not get them
up in time to strike a heavy blow.

It was apparent even to Harry and all the other young lieutenants that
the battle was lost. He must have shed tears then, because afterward he
found furrows in the mud and burned gunpowder on his face. The combat
now was not for victory, but for existence. The Southerners fought to
preserve the semblance of an army, and it was well for them that they
were valiant Virginians led by a great genius, and dauntless officers.

Stonewall Jackson, in this the only defeat he ever sustained in
independent command, never lost his head for a moment. By gigantic
exertions he formed a new line at last. The fresher troops covered the
shattered regiments. The retreating artillery was posted anew.

Jackson galloped back and forth on Little Sorrel. Everywhere his courage
and presence of mind brought the men back from despair to hope. Once
anew was proved the truth of Napoleon's famous maxim that men are
nothing, a man everything. The soldiers on the Northern side were as
brave as those on the Southern but they were not led by one of those
flashing spirits of war which emerge but seldom in the ages, men who in
all the turmoil and confusion of battle can see what ought to be done
and who do it.

The beaten Southern army, but a few thousands, now was formed anew for
a last stand. A portion of them seized a stone fence, and others took
position in thick timber. The cavalry of Turner Ashby raged back and
forth, seeking to protect the flanks, and in the east, coming shadows
showed that the twilight might yet protect the South from the last blow.

Harry, in the thick of furious battle, had become separated from his
commander. He was still on foot and his sword had been broken at the
hilt by a bullet, but he did not yet know it. Chance threw him once