The stern words of command, the return of discipline, seemed to steady that seething, fighting mass in an instant; there was a squeal, a curse, a slight settling down of the dust cloud, and two red-faced, perspiring troopers emerged from the jam, dragging the yet reluctant mule by main strength behind them. As they cleared the line of the column, Bungay rolled off the animal's back, and, in his eagerness, came down on all fours. “Well,” I said sarcastically, “what do you think of your mule now?” “By Jinks, Cap,” and his face lit up with intense admiration as he surveyed the animal, “durned if I don't take him hum. Gee! whut a scrap Mariar an' thet muel kin have!” The Major pushed through the curious line of troopers and faced him angrily. “What do you mean by running your dod-gasted old mule into this column?” he thundered. “Who are you, anyhow? Blamed if the little fool hasn't done more damage than a Yankee battery.” Jed faced him ruefully. “I didn't go ter dew it, mister,” he explained. “Ther muel wus jist pinted ther wrong way. I never knowed ther mean ol' cuss wint back'ards like thet.” The wrath on the Major's face caused me to interfere. In a few words I made everything clear, and substantial justice was attained by an order for Jed to move on with his animated battering ram. He disappeared dolefully in the dust cloud, the mule, once more asleep, trailing lazily behind him. The troop, slightly disfigured, closed up their broken ranks, and the weary march was resumed. It was long after dark the second day when, thoroughly wearied, we turned into an old tobacco field and made camp for the night. To right and left of our position glowed the cheery fires, telling where Early's command bivouacked in line of battle. From the low range of hills in front of where we rested one could look across an intervening valley, and see far off to the northward the dim flames which marked the position of the enemy. Down in the mysterious darkness between, divided only by a swift and narrow stream, were the blue and gray pickets. The opposing forces were sleeping on their arms, making ready for the death grip on the morrow. As I lay there thinking, wondering what might be my fate before another nightfall, seeing constantly in my half-dreams the fair face of a woman, which made me more of a coward than I had ever felt myself before, I was partially aroused by the droning tones of a voice close at hand. Lifting myself on one elbow I glanced curiously around to see where it originated, what was occurring. Clustered about a roaring fire of rails were a dozen troopers, and in the midst of them, occupying the post of honor upon an empty powder keg, was Bungay, enthusiastically reciting Scott. I caught a line or two: “'At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends from heaven that fell Had pealed the battle-cry of hell.'”