‘Shenandoah!’ replied Ephraim boldly, and never before had been so near death as at that minute. Had Sergeant Mason, smiling grimly behind his thick moustache, obeyed orders strictly, he would have fired then and there, for the word was not Shenandoah, and Ephraim’s account of himself had not been good; but two reasons restrained Mason. If the man turned out to be a brother Federal, he did not wish to have his blood upon his hands, skulker though he might be in view of the morrow’s expected fight; and, secondly, if the man were proved to be the rebel spy, Mason considered that a capture would redound more to his credit than an execution. Therefore Sergeant Mason held his hand, and bringing his rifle up to the port, said briefly: ‘Pass, friend!’ On came Ephraim, his shambling gait and loose-jointed frame contrasting ridiculously with the square, well-knit, soldierly figure in front of him; but just as he had set one foot on the bank to leap out of the ditch, being so far at a disadvantage, the sergeant suddenly altered his position, and bringing his rifle to the low guard, said sharply: ‘Surrender, my man. You’re my prisoner.’ On the lookout for surprises, Ephraim’s heart yet seemed to leap into his mouth at this; but he was quick to act. Jumping back from the steel that almost touched his neck, he grasped his own rifle with one hand by the breech and with the other by the barrel, and before the sergeant could realise his intention, rushed madly at him up the bank. Their bayonets met with a clash; but so furious was the assault, and so utterly unexpected, that even Sergeant Mason, man of iron though he was, gave back before it, and Ephraim springing from the ditch, found himself, so far at least as the ground went, at an equal advantage with his foe. For an instant they stood fronting each other, their bayonets crossed, and only the space of their rifles between them. The sergeant breathed hard and drew back the hammer of his gun. ‘Surrender!’ he said, ‘or you’re a dead man.’ Ephraim heard the click, and his answer was another rush. Swift as thought he turned his wrist, and by sheer force tossed the barrel of the sergeant’s rifle in the air, just as the latter’s finger touched the trigger. Bang! The bullet soared away high over the tops of the trees in the wood, and once more the sergeant recoiled before his impetuous antagonist. He began to wish that he had fired first and made inquiries afterwards. ‘Surrender, you fool!’ he hissed through his clenched teeth; ‘that shot will bring a hundred men down upon you.’ For answer, Ephraim cocked his own rifle and fired. There was a slight fizzle as the cap snapped, but no report. The various uses to which the rifle had been put that day had not improved its quality as a ‘shooting-iron,’ and the powder was thoroughly wet. The rifles were the old-fashioned, muzzle-loading pattern. There was no time to reload, and like lightning Ephraim rushed forward to renew the attack.