They stood a moment there together, saying nothing. Presently some mounted officers on the hill wheeled their horses and came spurring toward the column drawn up along the road. A trumpet spoke briskly; the bandmaster turned to the boy's sister, looked straight into her eyes, and took her hand. "I think we're going," he said; "I am trying to thank you--I don't know how. Good-by." "Is it a charge?" cried the boy. "Good-by," said the bandmaster, smiling, holding the boy's hand tightly. Then he mounted, touched his cap, wheeled, and trotted off, freeing his sabre with his right hand. The colonel had already drawn his sabre, the chief bugler sat his saddle, bugle lifted, waiting. A loud order, repeated from squadron to squadron, ran down the line; the restive horses wheeled, trampled forward, and halted. "Draw--sabres!" The air shrilled with the swish of steel. Far down the road horsemen were galloping in--the returning pickets. "Forward!" They were moving. "Steady--right dress!" taken up in turn by the company officers--"steady--right dress!" The bandmaster swung his sabre forward; the mounted band followed. Far away across the level fields something was stirring; the colonel saw it and turned in his saddle, scanning the column that moved forward on a walk. Half a mile, and, passing a hill, an infantry regiment rose in the shallow trenches to cheer them. Instantly the mounted band burst out into "The Girl I Left Behind Me"; an electric thrill passed along the column. "Steady! Steady! Right dress!" rang the calm orders as a wood, almost behind them, was suddenly fringed with white smoke and a long, rolling crackle broke out. "By fours--right-about--wheel!" The band swung out to the right; the squadrons passed on; and--"Steady! Trot! Steady--right dress--gallop!" came the orders. The wild music of "Garryowen" set the horses frantic--and the men, too. The band, still advancing at a walk, was dropping rapidly behind. A bullet hit kettle-drummer Pillsbury, and he fell with a grunt, doubling up across his nigh kettle-drum. A moment later Peters struck his cymbals wildly together and fell clean out of his saddle, crashing to the sod. Schwarz, his trombone pierced by a ball, swore aloud and dragged his frantic horse into line. "Right dress!" said the bandmaster blandly, mastering his own splendid mount as a bullet grazed its shoulder. They were in the smoke now, they heard the yelling charge ahead, the rifle fire raging, swelling to a terrific roar; and they marched forward, playing "Garryowen"--not very well, for Connor's jaw was half gone, and Bradley's horse was down; and the bandmaster, reeling in the saddle, parried blow on blow from a clubbed rifle, until a stunning crack alongside of the head laid him flat across his horse's neck. And there he clung till he tumbled off, a limp, loose-limbed mass, lying in the trampled grass under the heavy pall of smoke.