And then the unexpected, unimaginable thing happened. A new dust cloud rose over the hill toward Manassas Junction. The Southerners were hoping against hope that it might be Kirby Smith with his lost regiment from the Shenandoah Valley. The regiment had been expected since noon. It was now half past three o'clock. General McDowell, the Union Commander, was hoping against hope that Patterson's army from the Shenandoah would join his. They were not long in doubt. The fresh troops suddenly swung into position on McDowell's right flank. If they were allies all was well. If they were foes! Suddenly from this line of battle rose a new cry on the face of the earth. From two thousand dusty throats came a heaven-piercing, soul-shivering shout, the cry of the Southern hunter in sight of his game, a cry that was destined to ring over many a field of death--the fierce, wild "Rebel Yell." They charged McDowell's right flank with resistless onslaught. Kirby Smith fell desperately wounded and Elzey took command. Beckham's battery unlimbered and poured into the ranks from the rear a storm of shell. McDowell swung his battle line into a fiery crescent and made his last desperate stand. Jubal Early, Elzey's brigade, and Stonewall Jackson charged at the same signal--and then--pandemonium! Blind, unreasoning panic seized the army of the North. They broke and fled. Brave officers cursed and swore in vain. The panic grew. Men rushed pell mell over one another, white with terror. They threw down their muskets, their knapsacks, their haversacks and ran for their lives, every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. In vain the regular army, with splendid discipline, formed a rear guard to effect an orderly retreat. The crack of their guns only made the men run faster. The wildest rumors flew from parched tongue to throbbing ear.