riotism throttled all the past in her grasp--he feebly threw
up his hand, cheered faintly, and, with his eyes on Russell's, smiled
grimly, saying, with evident difficulty--

"Beat them back, Aubrey! Give them the bayonet."

The shock was awful--beggaring language. On, on they swept, while ceaseless
cheers mingled with the cannonade; the ground was recovered, to be captured
no more. The Federals were driven back across the turnpike, and now dark
masses of reinforcements debouched on the plain, and marched toward our
left. Was it Grouchy or Blucher? Some moments of painful suspense ensued,
while General Beauregard strained his eyes to decipher the advancing
banner. Red and white and blue, certainly; but was it the ensign of
Despotism or of Liberty? Nearer and nearer came the rushing column, and lo!
upon the breeze streamed, triumphant as the Labarum of Constantine, the
Stars and Bars. Kirby Smith and Elzey--God be praised! The day was won, and
Victory nestled proudly among the folds of our new-born banner. One more
charge along our whole line, and the hireling hordes of oppression fled
panic-stricken. Russell had received a painful wound from a minnie ball,
which entered his shoulder and ranged down toward the elbow, but he
maintained his position, and led his regiment a mile in the pursuit. When
it became evident that the retreat was a complete rout, he resigned the
command to Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwell, and rode back to the battlefield.

Picking his way to avoid trampling the dead, Russell saw Major Huntingdon
at a little distance, trying to drag himself toward a neighbouring tree.
The memory of his injuries crowded upon the memory of all that he had
endured and lost through that man's prejudice--the sorrow that might have
been averted from his blind mother--and his vindictive spirit rebelled at
the thought of rendering him aid. But as he paused and struggled against
his better nature, Irene's holy face, as he saw it last, lifted in prayer
for him, rose, angel-like, above all that mass of death and horrors. The
sufferer was Irene's father; she was hundreds of miles away. Russell set
his lips firmly, and, riding up to the prostrate figure, dismounted.
Exhausted by his efforts, Major Huntingdon had fallen back in the dust, and
an expression of intolerable agony distorted his features as Russell
stooped over him, and asked in a voice meant to be gentle--

"Can I do anything for you? Could you sit up, if I placed you on