rey Whiting and his men drew wearily out
to their posts, munching dryly at the last of the stores which they
had taken from the construction depots along the line which they had
destroyed. This was the end. It was not far from the mind of each man
that this would probably be his last meal.

The firing began again as the outer line came creeping in upon them.
They had still the great advantage of the shelter of the woods and the
formation of the soldiers, while their marksmanship kept those
directly in front of them almost out of range. But there was nothing
in sight before them but that they would certainly all be surrounded
and shot down or taken.

Suddenly the fire from below ceased. Those who had been watching the
most distant of the two wings creeping around them saw these men halt
and slowly begin to gather back together. What was it? Were they going
to rush at last? Here would be a fight in earnest!

But the soldiers, still keeping their spread formation, merely walked
back in their tracks until they were entirely out of range. It must be
a ruse of some sort. The hill men stuck to their shelter, puzzled, but
determined not to be drawn out.

Jeffrey Whiting, watching near the middle of the line, saw an old man
walking, barehead, up over the lines of half-burnt ties and twisted
rails. That white head with the high, wide brow, the slightly
stooping, spare shoulders, the long, swinging walk-- That was the
Bishop of Alden!

Jeffrey Whiting dropped his gun and, yelling to the men on either side
to stay where they were, jumped down into the roadbed and ran to meet
the Bishop.

"Are any men killed?" the Bishop asked before Jeffrey had time to
speak as they met.

"Old Erskine Beasley was shot through the chest--we don't know how bad
it is," said Jeffrey, stopping short. "Ten other men are wounded. I
don't think any of them are bad."

"Call in your men," said the Bishop briefly. "The soldiers are going
back."

At Jeffrey's call the men came running from all sides as he and the
Bishop reached the line. Haggard, ragged, powder-grimed they gathered
round, staring in dull unbelief at this new appearance of the White
Horse Chaplain, for so one and all they knew and remembered him. Men
who had seen him years ago at Fort Fisher slipped back into the scene
of that day and looked about blankly for the white horse. And young
men who had heard that tale many times and had seen and heard of his
coming through the fire to F