“You must, you shall consent. We will force you,” the cry went up from the whole command as from one man. Morgan bowed his head, he could not speak. In silence he took Calhoun’s hand, tears gathered in his eyes, the first tears Calhoun ever saw there. There was a strong clasp, a clasp which seemed to say “It may be the last,” then, wheeling his horse, Morgan galloped swiftly away, followed by less than half of his six hundred. There was not a moment to lose, for the Federals were already charging down with triumphant cheers, confident of an easy victory. Calhoun had posted his men well, and a withering volley sent the Federals reeling back. They charged again, only to recoil before the fierce fire of the Confederates. There was now a lull in the fighting. Calhoun saw that they were flanking him on the right and left. “Charge!” he shouted, and the little band were soon in the midst of their enemies. The Federals closed in around them. There was no way to retreat. Calhoun’s men, seeing how hopeless the fight was, began to throw down their arms. “Surrender,” cried a fine-looking officer to Calhoun, who, well in front, was fighting like a demon. Even in that hell of battle Calhoun knew the officer. It was Mark Crawford, the captain whose horse he had captured in Tennessee, and whom he afterwards took prisoner at Cave City. But the captain was wearing the shoulder-straps of a major now. “Never!” shouted Calhoun, in answer to the summons to surrender, and with sword in hand, he spurred forward to engage Crawford in single combat. But that officer had a revolver in his hand, and he raised it and fired. Calhoun felt as if he had been struck on the head with a red-hot iron. He reeled in his saddle, and then fell forward on his horse’s neck. His sword dropped from his nerveless hand. His horse, wild with fear and not feeling the restraining hand of a master, broke through the ranks of the Federals, and bore him out of the conflict. Still clinging to the neck of his horse and the horn of his saddle, he kept his seat. He straightened himself up, but the blood streaming over his face blinded him, and he saw not where he was going. Neither did he realize what had happened, for the shock of his wound had rendered him half-unconscious. His mind began to wander. He was a soldier no longer, but a boy back in Kentucky running a race with his cousin Fred. “On! on! Salim,” he weakly shouted; “we must win, it is for the Sunny South we are racing.” The horse still ran at full speed, his glossy coat dripping with perspiration, his nostrils widely distended and showing red with blood. But his pace began to slacken. Darkness gathered before the eyes of Calhoun. “Why, it’s getting night,” he murmured; “Fred, where are you?” Lower still lower he sank, until he was once more grasping the neck of his horse. A deadly faintness seized him, total darkness was around him, and he knew no more.