"My God," he cried, "those cavalrymen are going to retreat!"

Then he saw something that struck him with a deeper pang, though he was
silent for the moment. He knew those men. Even at the distance many of
the figures were familiar.

"My own troop!" he gasped. "Who could have thought it?"

Then he added, in sad apology: "They need a leader."

The horsemen were still in doubt, although they seemed to drift backward
and away from the field of battle. A fierce passion lay hold of Harley
and inflamed his brain. He saw his own men retreating when the fate of
the South hung before them. He thought neither of his wounds nor of the
two women beside him, one his sister. Springing to his feet while they
tried in vain to hold him back, he cried out that he had lingered there
long enough. He threw off their clinging hands, ran to the door, blood
from his own wounds streaking his clothes, and they saw him rush across
the open space toward the edge of the forest where the horsemen yet
lingered. They saw him, borne on by excitement, seize one of the
riderless horses, leap into the saddle and turn his face toward the
battle. They almost fancied that they could hear his shout to his
troops: "Come on, men; the way is here, not there!"

The horse he had seized was that of a slain bugler, and the bugle, tied
by a string to the horn of the saddle, still hung there. Harley lifted
it to his lips, blew a note that rose, mellow and inspiring, above all
the roar of the cannon and the rifles, and then, at the head of his men,
rode into the heart of the battle.

CHAPTER XIX

NIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS

The two women clasped hands again and looked at each other as Harley
disappeared amid the smoke.

"He has left us," said Mrs. Markham.

"Yes, but he has gone to his country's need," said his sister proudly.

Then they were silent again. Night, smoky, cloudy and dark, thick with
vapours and mists, and ashes and odours that repelled, was coming down
upon the Wilderness. Afar in the east the fire in the forest still
burned, sending up tongues of scarlet and crimson over which sparks flew
in myriads. Nearer by, the combat went on, its fury undimmed by the
darkness, its thunder as steady, as persistent and terrible as before.

Helen was struck with horror. The battle, weird enough in the day, was
yet more so in the darkness, and she could not understand why it did not
close with the light. It partook of an inhuman quality, and that sce