There came a report that blue troops held Williamsport, but when late in a stormy afternoon the head of Imboden’s column came to this place, so known by now, frontier, with only the moat of the river between the foe’s territory and the fortress’s territory,—when the advance rode into town, there were found only peaceful Marylanders. The grey convoy occupied Williamsport. At last the torturing wagons stopped, at last the moaning hurt were lifted out, at last the surgeons could help, at last the dead were parted from the living. Imboden requisitioned all the kitchens of the place. There arose a semblance of warmth, a pale ghost of cheer. Here and there sounded even a weak laugh. “Say, Doctor! after hell, purgatory seems kind of good to us! That was hell back there on the road—hell if ever there was hell.... _Ouch!_... _Ooooghh! Doctor!_” “Doctor, do you reckon I’ll live to get across? I want to see my wife—I want to see her so badly.—There’s a boy, too, and I’ve never seen him—” “How air we going to get across? Air there boats?” “Who’s keeping the Yankees away? Jeb Stuart? That’s good.... Oh, Doctor, you ain’t going to cut it off? Please, Doctor, please, sir, don’t! No, it won’t mortify—I’m just as sure of that! Please just put it in splints. It ain’t so badly hurt—it ain’t hurting me hardly any.... Doctor, Doctor! for God’s sake!—Why, I couldn’t walk any more!—why, I’d have to leave the army!... Doctor, please don’t—please don’t cut it off, sir....” The rain came down, the rain came down, a drenching, sullen storm. Wide, yellow, and swollen rolled the Potomac before Williamsport. Imboden procured several flatboats, and proceeded to the ferrying across of those of the more slightly wounded who thought that once in Virginia they might somehow get to Winchester. In the midst of this work came news of the approach of a large force of Federal cavalry and artillery—Buford and Kilpatrick’s divisions hurrying down from Frederick.