air and cheer, but the anxiety in his colonel's face forbids. Thicker grows that shrouding smoke-cloud, heavier the thunder, but louder, clearer, and nearer the crash of musketry, the chorus of exultant yells. Surely there should be an infantry division, at least, to line that crest and support those guns, say veteran soldiers, and all too late the order comes. Out from the woods to the right of the twin batteries issues a long, well-ordered line of troops, commanded by a general who knows his trade. Straight, swift, and silent, in through the hanging smoke, he drives them. Instantly at sight of them the nearest battery commander whirls his muzzles around to deluge them with canister. Instantly from his misguided senior comes the order, "Don't fire. Those are our friends." Quick the reply, "They are Confederates! As sure as the world, they are Confederates!" But Griffin, certain as he is, can but obey when Barry sternly says, "They are our own supports. You must not fire!" Already half of Ricketts's horses and many of his men are down when that menacing line suddenly halts, aims, and at short range pours in one fearful volley that rips through the batteries like a flash of lightning. Down go dozens more,--officers, gunners, drivers, cannoneers, horses,--and then, in wild panic, what are left of the poor, affrighted beasts turn short about, and, snorting with terror, despite every effort of the drivers, come tearing down the slopes, limbers and caissons bounding after them, straight through the ranks of the startled supports; the precious, priceless guns, the stricken wounded, the heroic dead, the gallant officers, abandoned to their fate. Brave as they were in face of fire at home, this was something the Zouaves had never dreamed of. No Ellsworth raged among them now, holding them to their duty. One wild volley they fire, mostly in the air, and down, too, they come, streaming like sheep along the hill-side, leaping the stone wall and scattering for shelter. The panic of Bull Run has begun. Down among the scary mules of the wagons tear the riderless battery horses, and away go darky drivers, mules, and all. Vain the dash of generals to the front, ordering regiments and brigades to charge and retake the guns, now being dragged to the woods. The rebel lines are mad with joy, drunk with triumph, invincible against the half-hearted assaults that follow. No longer is there any concerted effort on the Northern side. Some Union regiments, indeed, charge home, only to find themselves isolated, abandoned right and left by less disciplined comrades. Twice the New-Englanders breast that fire-flashing slope, their gray-haired old colonel cheering them on. Twice they come drifting back, bringing their scores of wounded with them; but when, at last, with tears coursing down his powder-blackened cheeks, Burnside tells them all is over, and to follow the retreat, it is the old Covenanter, Flint, who leads the remnant from the field.