A trembling negro boy crouches by the general's stirrup. Colonel Connor's horse almost treads on him in the dark. The colonel speaks a quiet word to the captain of the foremost company, and in low tone that officer orders, "'Tention, Company 'A!' Load at will! Load!" There is a sound of fumbling at heavy cartridge-boxes, of tearing paper, the whee-ep of the rammers springing from the pipes, a phosphorescent gleam of steel as they whirl in air, a muttered malediction as some fellow's cap is knocked off by an awkward neighbor. There is a dull pounding, as the heavy bullets are driven home, a clicking of gun-locks, as the little copper caps are thrust upon the cones; then the low thud of the iron-shod butts upon the ground and all is still. The lieutenant-colonel rides back along the column until he reaches the colors, each company in succession loading as silently. The left wing is bidden to remain where it is as a reserve, and to await orders. The leading company, with arms trailed, forms line at the edge of the wood. The second platoon steps back three paces as reserve. The first receives the low-toned command, "As skirmishers, by the right and left flanks take intervals," a thing at which these Bull Run veterans have been drilling since early in May, and can do in even thicker darkness. In a minute the long line of dispersed shadows is formed, facing southwest, and in two minutes, with officers close up to the line, the general and his aides only a few yards behind, and five companies following noiselessly along the roadway, out they go across the starlight open. Everybody seems to know the enemy's sentinels will be found along that opposite skirt of woods. Everybody listens with straining ears and thumping heart for the first challenge. Those young Southrons are no fools on picket, and even in the dark a cat-footed skirmish line cannot hope to crawl upon them unobserved. Half-way across goes the long jagged line,--two-thirds of the two hundred yards that interpose between the groves,--and now the centremost, those along the pathway, backed by half a dozen fellows from the reserve, make ready for a rush. Ten yards more, then some luckless skirmisher trips on some unseen root, stumbles forward, and swears under his breath. Instantly from the clump of trees nearest the road there comes the sharp order "Halt!" and the click of a lock, but before the challenge can follow, there is a swift rush of stooping foes along the roadway, a heavy blow, a struggle, a sharp report, a stifled cry, then "Forward! Forward! double quick!" everywhere along the column, and with the skirmishers leaping and crashing ahead through the timber, tumbling over the startled sentinels and pickets, with occasional crackling of rifle and shouting of warning and command, with officers darting along among the men, with the general and his aides and Colonel Connor spurring close after, with a dozen men swarming ahead along the dim