t him, when suddenly yells rent
the air; and, looking, he saw the Zouaves of Parke's brigade dashing down
the causeway in front of the rebel redoubt.

They were met by a murderous fire. They returned it as they charged. As
their comrades fell, they passed over them unheedingly, and still kept
on--a sublime sight to look upon, in their wild Arab costumes, shouting,
"Zou! zou!" bounding like tigers, clearing obstructions, and sweeping
straight to the breastwork with their deadly bayonets.

"What is it?" asked Atwater, faintly.

"Victory!" answered Frank; for the firing ceased--the enemy were flying.

"That's enough!" And the still pallid face of the soldier smiled.

Victory! None but those who have fought a stern foe to the bloody close,
and seen his ranks break and fly, and the charging columns pursue, ranks
of bristling steel rushing in through clouds of battle smoke, know what
pride and exultation are in that word.

Victory! Reno's column, that had outflanked the rebels on the west side,
fighting valiantly, charged simultaneously with the Zouaves. The whole
line followed the example, and went in with colors flying, and shouts of
joy filling the welkin which had been shaken so lately with the jar of
battle. Over fallen trees, over pits and ditches, through brush, and bog,
and water, the conquering hosts poured in; Frank's regiment with the
rest, and himself among the foremost that planted their standard on the
breastwork.

There were the abandoned cannon, still warm and smoking. There lay a
deserted flag, bearing the Latin inscription "_Aut vincere aut
mori_,"--Victory or death,--flung down in the precipitate flight.

"They couldn't conquer, and they didn't want to die; so they split the
difference, and run," observed Seth Tucket.

There too lay the dead and dying, whom the boastful enemy had forsaken
where they fell. One of these who had _not_ run was an officer--handsome
and young. He was not yet dead. A strange light was in his eyes as he
looked on the forms of the foemen thronging around him, saw the faces of
the victors, and heard the cheering. Success and glory were for
them--for him defeat and death.

"Lift me up," he said, "and let me look at you once."

They raised him to a sitting posture, supported partly by a gun-carriage,
and partly by the arms of his conquerors. And they pressed around him,
their voices hushed, their triumphant brows saddened with respect for the
dying.

"Though we have been