Then the old warrior smiled--a smile of simple beauty and grandeur, of keen satisfaction that such an honor should have been paid him, and he tried to speak to correct them. But they shouted the more, and drowned out his voice and would not have it otherwise. Despairing, he rode to the front and drew his long, heavy, old, revolutionary sword. It flashed in the air. It came to "attention"--and then a dead silence followed. "Men," he said, "this is the sword of John Sevier, the rebel that led us up the sides of King's Mountain when every tyrant gun that belched in our face called us--rebels!" "Old Hick'ry! Old Hick'ry, forever!" came back from the lines. Again the old sword came to attention, and again a deep hush followed. "Men," he said, drawing a huge rifled barreled pistol--"this is the pistol of Andrew Jackson, the rebel that whipped the British at New Orleans when every gun that thundered in his face, meant death to liberty!" "Old Hickory! Old Hickory!!" came back in a frenzy of excitement. Again the old sword came to attention--again, the silence. Then the old man fairly stood erect in his stirrups--he grew six inches taller and straighter and the black horse reared and rose as if to give emphasis to his rider's assertion: "Men," he shouted, "rebel is the name that tyranny gives to patriotism! And now, let us fight, as our fore-fathers fought, for our state, our homes and our firesides!" And then clear and distinct there rang out on the night air, a queer old continental command: "Fix, pieces!" They did not know what this meant at first. But some old men in the line happened to remember and fixed their bayonets. Then there was clatter and clank down the entire line as others imitated their examples. "Poise, fo'k!" rang out again more queerly still. The old men who remembered brought their guns to the proper position. "Right shoulder, fo'k!"--followed. Then, "Forward, March!" came back and they moved straight at the batteries--now silent--and straight at the breastworks, more silent still. Proudly, superbly, they came on, with not a shout or shot--a chained line with links of steel--a moving mass with one heart--and that heart,--victory. On they came at the breastworks, walking over the dead who lay so thick they could step from body to body as they marched. On they came, following the old cocked hat that had once held bloodier breastworks against as stubborn foe. On--on--they came, expecting every moment to see a flame of fire run round the breastworks, a furnace of flame leap up from the batteries, and then--victory or death--behind old Hickory! Either was honor enough! And now they were within fifty feet of the breastworks, moving as if on dress parade. The guns must thunder now or never! One step more--then, an electrical bolt shot through every nerve as the old man wheeled his horse and again rang out that queer old continental command, right in the mouth of the enemy's ditch, right in the teeth of his guns: