Here a new incident greeted them, and one sufficiently tragic. Before the door, sitting on his horse, was a trooper, clad in blue--and at sight of him the ladies shrunk back. A second glance showed them that he was bleeding to death from a mortal wound. The bullet had entered his side, traversed the body, issued from the opposite side, inflicting a wound which rendered death almost certain. "Take me from my horse!" murmured the wounded man, stretching out his arms and tottering. The young girls ran to him. "Who are you--one of the Yankees?" they exclaimed. "Oh, no!" was the faint reply. "I am one of Mountjoy's men. Tell him, when you see him, that I said, 'Captain, this is the first time I have gone out with you, and the last!'" As they assisted him from the saddle, he murmured: "My name is William Armistead Braxton. I have a wife and three little children living in Hanover--you must let them know--" The poor fellow fainted; and the young ladies were compelled to carry him in their arms into the house, where he was laid upon a couch, writhing in agony. They had then time to look at him, and saw before them a young man of gallant countenance, elegant figure--in every outline of his person betraying the gentleman born and bred. They afterwards discovered that he had just joined Mosby, and that, as he had stated, this was his first scout. Poor fellow! it was also his last. A SPARTAN DAME AND HER YOUNG [From The Gray Jacket, page 488.] "We were once," says General D. H. Hill, "witness to a remarkable piece of coolness in Virginia. A six-gun battery was shelling the woods furiously near which stood a humble hut. As we rode by, the shells were fortunately too high to strike the dwelling, but this might occur any moment by lowering the angle or shortening the fire. The husband was away, probably far off in the army, but the good housewife was busy at the wash-tub, regardless of all the roar and crash of shells and falling timber. Our surprise at her coolness was lost in greater amazement at observing three children, the oldest not more than 10, on top of a fence, watching with great interest the flight of the shells. Our curiosity was so much excited by the extraordinary spectacle that we could not refrain from stopping and asking the children if they were not afraid. 'Oh, no,' replied they, 'the Yankees ain't shooting at us, they are shooting at the soldiers.'" SINGING UNDER FIRE [A Rebel's Recollections, pages 72-73.] They [the women of Petersburg] carried their efforts to cheer and help the troops into every act of their lives. When they could, they visited camp. Along the lines of march they came out with water or coffee or tea--the best they had, whatever it might be; with flowers, or garlands of green when their flowers were gone. A bevy of girls stood under a sharp fire from the enemy's lines at Petersburg one day, while they sang Bayard Taylor's "Song of the Camp," responding to an encore with the stanza: