They came like a storm of the desert, two colours, one driving, one giving back, but in so great a cloud of road dust and carbine smoke, and in so rapid motion that which was which and whose were the shouts of triumph was not easy to tell. The horses’ hoofs made a thunder; all grew large, enveloped the earth, brought din and suffocation, roared by and were gone. There was a sense that the victorious colour was grey—but all was gone like a blast of the genii. The wagon had been nearly overturned. Some one had ridden violently against it—then there had sounded a shout, “’Ware! A woman!” and the wild course, pursued and pursuers, ever so slightly swerved. Désirée, thrown to her knees, laid hold of the wagon edge and waited, but not with closed eyes. A colour was in her cheek; she looked in this torrent as she had looked upon the levee, above the Mississippi in anger. The torrent passed, the rage of noise sank, the choking, blinding dust began to settle. Nebuchadnezzar came from the lee side of Julius Cæsar. He was ashen, whether with dust or with fear. “Whoever in dey born days see de like ob dat? Christian folk actin’ de debbil lak dat! Hit er-gwine ter bring er jedgment! Yo’ ain’ huht, mistis?” “No,” said Désirée. “I felt as though something were bearing down upon me out of ‘Paradise Lost.’” “What dat blood on yo’ ahm?” Désirée looked. “A bullet must have grazed it. I never felt it. It doesn’t hurt much now.” They did not get to Resaca that night. Julius Cæsar was too tired, the road too heavy, and one of Wheeler’s outposts, stopping the wagon, insisted that it was not safe for it to go farther in the darkness. With the first fireflies they turned aside to a “cracker’s” cabin in a fold of the hills and asked for hospitality. A tall, lean, elderly woman and her tall, lean daughters gave them rude shelter and rude fare. In the morning the wagon and Julius Cæsar and Nebuchadnezzar and Désirée went on again toward Resaca.