Among the lamented dead of this day's havoc, no loss was more keenly felt than that of Major-General George Dashiel Bayard. He was standing among a group of officers around the trunk of an old tree, near the headquarters of Generals Franklin and Smith, when the enemy suddenly began to shell a battery near by, and one of the deadly missiles struck this gallant leader. He was carried to the field-hospital, mortally wounded. Quietly turning to the surgeon who examined his ghastly wounds, he asked "if there was any hope." On being informed that there was none, he proceeded with undisturbed composure, and without a murmur of pain, to dictate three letters. One of these was to his affianced bride. This day, it was said, had been appointed for his wedding. The time-hands marked the hour of eight when this letter was finished, and, as he uttered its closing words, his spirit fled from the shattered body and left it only cold and tenantless clay. He was but twenty-eight years of age, of prepossessing appearance and manners, with as brave a soul as ever defended the flag of the Union, and a capacity for military usefulness equal to any man in the service. Gradually he had arisen from one position of honor and responsibility to another, proving himself tried and true in each promotion, while his cavalry comrades especially were watching the developments of his growing power with unabating enthusiasm. Briefly, the outlines of his history are as follows: He was born December eighteenth, 1835, at Seneca Falls, New York, from whence, in 1842, he removed with his parents to Fairfield, Iowa. From this place he went to the Dorris Military Institute at St. Louis, Missouri, where he remained eighteen months. The family then removed to the East, and settled at Morristown, New Jersey. From Morristown, he entered West Point Academy. When twenty years of age, he graduated with the highest honors, and, strange to say, it was through the offices of Jefferson Davis, then Secretary of War, that he was at once assigned to a cavalry regiment as second lieutenant. His subsequent career, so full of brilliance and the true spirit of heroism, is better known to the country. Watered by the dews of hallowed remembrance, his fame, as a sweet flower, still exhales its fragrance, and finds rich soil in the hearts of the people. "How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest? When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. * * * * * "By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung, There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay. And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there." CHAPTER XIV. UNWRITTEN HISTORY.