A horse was crossing the stream. There was a hissing shriek in the air, a geyser spouting from the creek, the remnants of a horse thrown upward, and five men tossed in a swirl like straw: and, a moment later, a boy feebly paddling towards the shore--while the water ran past him red with blood. And, through it all, looking backward, Crittenden saw little Carter coming on horseback, calm of face, calm of manner, with his hands folded over his saddle, and his eyes looking upward--little Carter who had started out in an ambulance that morning with a temperature of one hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle--to come out normal at dusk. And behind him--erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but hardly less cool--rode Basil. Crittenden's eyes filled with love and pride for the boy. "God bless him--God save him!" * * * * * A lull came--one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing spell--and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift passing shower of rain. There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on his face behind the low bank with a fervent: "Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton. "That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close by. "That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his voice--without even lowering his glasses. Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve--nor, in that campaign, the soldier. "Well, by God," said Reynolds, irritably--the bullet had gone through his sleeve. "This ain't no time to joke." Grafton's face was still calm--he was still looking. Presently he turned and beckoned to somebody in the rear. "There he is, now." Looking behind, Crittenden had to laugh. There was Bob, in a cavalryman's hat, with a Krag-Jorgensen in his hand, and an ammunition belt buckled around him. As he started toward Grafton, a Lieutenant halted him. "Why aren't you with your regiment?" he demanded sharply. "I ain't got no regiment. I'se looking fer Ole Captain." "Get back into your regiment," said the officer, with an oath, and pointing behind to the Tenth Coloured Cavalry coming up. "Huh!" he said, looking after the officer a moment, and then he came on to the edge of the creek. "Go to the rear, Bob," shouted Crittenden, sharply, and the next moment Bob was crashing through the bushes to the edge of the creek. "Foh Gawd, Ole Cap'n, I sutn'ly is glad to fine you. I wish you'd jes show me how to wuk this gun. I'se gwine to fight right side o' you--you heah me." "Go back, Bob," said Crittenden, firmly.