essing her eyes against. To her there
was a sound as if the heavens were being rent, and she felt a trembling
of the earth, as if it shook with terror at the spectacle. She stood a
moment bewildered. It seemed as if the light never paled at all, but
only changed its place sometimes; the roar was terrific, it never
ceased, or lulled, and the water beneath them tossed and hissed in rage
at its bed being so shaken. Nancy's hand sought her companion's with a
reassuring pressure, for speech was impossible. But Elizabeth had only
been unprepared. She recovered herself and smiled her thanks. Then she
sat down again with her face toward the city and watched this cannonade,
terrible to men grown grey in the service, as officers from the fleet
bore witness, and to the enemy deadly.

For the fascine battery had opened fire.

At midnight General Pepperell sent for Archdale to detail him for
special service the next day.

"Why! what's the matter?" he cried, looking at the young man as he came
into the tent.

"Nothing, General Pepperell. I am quite ready for service," replied
Stephen haughtily.

"Ah!--Yes. Glad of that," returned the General, and he went on to give
his orders, watching the other's pale face as he did so, and reading
there strong emotion of some kind.

When he was alone, and his dispatches had all been written, he sat
musing for a time, as little disturbed by the glare and the thunder
about him as if stillness were an unknown thing. His cogitations did not
seem satisfactory, for he frowned more than once. "What's the matter
with the fellow?" he muttered. "Something has gone wrong. I've seen an
uneasiness for a long time. Now the blow has fallen. Poor fellow! he
doesn't take life easy. The news is it, I wonder? or the letter?" He sat
for a while carefully nursing his left knee, while his thoughts
gradually went back to military matters, and worked there diligently. At
last he straightened himself, clapped this same knee with vigor, put
both feet to the ground and, rising, took up from his improvised
table--a log turned endwise,--a paper upon which he made a note with a
worn pencil from his pocket. "Yes," he cried, "I can do that. It's the
only thing I can do. And I need it so much they will not mind." He
finished by a smile. "Strange I hadn't thought of it before," he said.

Then he threw himself down upon his bed of boughs and moss, and with the
terrific din about him slept the sleep of weariness. At sunrise,