firing from behind trees along the roadside, the flashes of their guns,
"whose speedy gleams the darkness swallowed," revealing me on my tall
horse with his head up. He must see safety ahead, and I let him fly.

A hundred yards farther on our road joined the main pike at an acute
angle, and entering it he swept on. Then, just behind me, a Federal
cannon was discharged. The charge of canister tore through the brush on
either side, and over and under me, and at the same instant my steed's
hind leg gave way, and my heart sank with it. If struck at all, he
immediately rallied and outran himself as well as his competitors. After
getting out of the range of the firing and the shadow of the mountain, I
saw indistinctly our cavalrymen along the side of the road, and we
bantered each other as I passed.

Farther on, at a toll-gate, I heard the voice of Tom Williamson. His
ambulance had broken down and he was being assisted toward the house. I
drew rein, but thought, "How can I help him? This horse must be
well-nigh done for," and rode on. Since reaching the foot of the
mountain the way had been open and everything on it moving for life. But
again the road was full, and approaching clatter, with the sharp reports
of pistols, brought on another rush, and away we went--wagons, wounded
men, negroes, forges, ambulances, cavalry--everything.

This in time subsided and, feeling ashamed, I turned back to look after
my wounded, my horse as reluctant as myself, and expecting every moment
the sound of the coming foe. A sudden snort and the timid step of my
nervous steed warned me of breakers ahead. Peering through the darkness
I saw coming toward me, noiseless and swift as the wind, an object
white as the driven snow. "What," I asked myself, "are ghosts abroad,
and in such a place? Is Gettysburg giving up her dead so soon?" But, as
the thing met me, a voice cried out, "Is that you, Ned? Is that you?
Take me on your horse. Let me get in the saddle and you behind." For a
moment I was dumb, and wished it wasn't I. The voice was the voice of
Lieutenant Brown, the same whom I had seen undermined by the shell at
Gettysburg, and who had not put a foot to the ground until now.
Barefooted, bareheaded; nothing on but drawers and shirt--white as a
shroud! The prospect that now confronted me instantly flashed through my
mind. First, "Can this horse carry two?" Then I pictured myself with
such a looking object in my embrace, and with nothing with which