Behind the Stonewall the sky began, very faintly, to pale. The native of the country who was guiding spoke briefly. “We’re near the pike. Stephenson’s not far on the other side.” Down the dark line, shadows in the half light, rang an order like a ghostly echo. “Press forward, men! Press forward!” The “foot cavalry” made a sound in its throat, then did its best. The east grew primrose, the rolling country took form. It was now a haggard country, seamed, burned over, and ruined, differing enough from what it once had been. There came a gleam of the Valley Pike, then with suddenness a heavy sound of firing. “They’re attacking! They’re attacking!” said the Stonewall. “Hurry up there!—hurry up—_Double-quick_!” So thick was the fog that it was difficult to distinguish at any distance shape or feature. A mounted man appeared before the head of the column, all grey in grey mist. “It’s Captain Douglas, General, from General Johnson! The enemy’s evacuating Winchester. We’re holding the railroad cut over there, but they’re in strength and threaten to flank us! Ammunition’s almost out. Please come on as fast as you can!” The Stonewall felt the Valley Pike beneath its feet. Through the fog, a little to the west of the road, they saw a body of troops moving rapidly. In the enveloping mist the colour could not be told. “Grey, aren’t they?—Can you see the flag—?” “No, but I think they’re ours—Steuart or Nicholls ...” “They’re not Steuart and they are not Nicholls,” said Thunder Run. “They’re blue.” “It’s the Yankee flanking body! ... _Fire!_”