From the pony herd to the timber fringe was further than had been expected; as with crackle and slight jingle of sabre and bit the line moved in at eager walk, every man peering, all too fast brightened the landscape. The tipis glimmered white; from the apex of some curled thin smoke; very soon would the village awake to the routine of another day. How hard they slept—warrior and squaw and child and even dog! “Another deserted village!” whispered the general, to Adjutant Moylan. The adjutant nodded. The general swept a glance along his line, right and left; he straightened more in the saddle, his right hand fell to the butt of his revolver, projecting from holster; evidently the time had come, and in a few moments would it be known whether this was indeed another abandoned village. Ned raised his bugle to his lips, for the “Charge”; but even while he was drawing breath, in readiness, smart and quick rang from the farther side of the village a single report of rifle! The alarm! What a change burst upon the slumberous valley! Turned in his saddle the general; with a word his voice smote the band into action. “Garryowen! Give it to ’em!” No longer was there need for concealment. Quite the opposite. Shattering the icy air, pink with nearing dawn, into full cry blared the doughty band. The men cheered wildly; back from the hills beyond the fated village hastened like an echo other cheers. “Trot—march!” The line of squadrons, irregular as they surged through the low brush, broke into the trot. Sabres jingled, saddles creaked; carbines were at the “Advance,” butt on thigh, muzzle up; and the sharpshooters must run. The trees were close before. The tipis were plain. Dark figures were darting among them. Dogs barked furiously. From the other side of the village pealed a rattling volley of carbines, and spread to a steady clatter. The general stood in his stirrups; he whirled Dandy about, and swung high his cap above his yellow hair. Over the clamor of band and of cheer his voice rose exultant. “Charge!” This was enough. Ned glued his lips to that old bugle and from puffed cheeks forced his very soul into the wild stirring notes of the “Charge.” On right and on left the company bugles answered. Forward sprang the horses, awaiting no spur. Ned was conscious that the band had dropped back through an interval of the squadron behind; they raced on past it; but it continued to play. Our hearts so stout have got us fame, For soon ’tis known from whence we came; Where’er we go they dread the name Of Garryowen in glory. More savagely cheered the men. Sergeant-Major Kennedy (fine soldier) had drawn up almost even with the general and the adjutant. They rode with revolvers held aloft, to be brought down to the deadly level. Ned blew over and over the “Charge”—the bugle in his left hand, but his revolver in his right.