d bodies of
comrades; the ominous silence of a breastwork; the awful inertia of some
rigidly kneeling files beyond, which still kept their form but never
would move again; the melting away of skirmish points; the sudden gaps
here and there; the sickening incurving of what a moment before had been
a straight line--all these he saw in all their fatal significance. But
even at this moment, coming upon a hasty barricade of overset commissary
wagons, he stopped to glance at a familiar figure he had seen but
an hour ago, who now seemed to be commanding a group of collected
stragglers and camp followers. Mounted on a wheel, with a revolver in
each hand and a bowie knife between his teeth--theatrical even in his
paroxysm of undoubted courage--glared Jim Hooker. And Clarence Brant,
with the whole responsibility of the field on his shoulders, even at
that desperate moment, found himself recalling a vivid picture of the
actor Hooker personating the character of "Red Dick" in "Rosalie, the
Prairie Flower," as he had seen him in a California theatre five years
before.

It wanted still an hour of the darkness that would probably close the
fight of that day. Could he hold out, keeping his offensive position so
long? A hasty council with his officers showed him that the weakness
of their position had already infected them. They reminded him that
his line of retreat was still open--that in the course of the night the
enemy, although still pressing towards the division centre, might yet
turn and outflank him--or that their strangely delayed supports might
come up before morning. Brant's glass, however, remained fixed on the
main column, still pursuing its way along the ridge. It struck him
suddenly, however, that the steady current had stopped, spread out along
the crest on both sides, and was now at right angles with its previous
course. There had been a check! The next moment the thunder of guns
along the whole horizon, and the rising cloud of smoke, revealed a
line of battle. The division centre was engaged. The opportunity he had
longed for had come--the desperate chance to throw himself on their rear
and cut his way through to the division--but it had come too late! He
looked at his shattered ranks--scarce a regiment remained. Even as
a demonstration, the attack would fail against the enemy's superior
numbers. Nothing clearly was left to him now but to remain where he
was--within supporting distance, and await the issue of the fight