he bays follow them, sabring the
fugitives. Days after, the enemy's horses lay thick among the uncut
corn.

Zagonyi holds his main body until Maythenyi disappears in the cloud
of Rebel cavalry; then his voice rises through the air,--"In open
order,--charge!" The line opens out to give play to their sword-arm.
Steeds respond to the ardor of their riders, and quick as thought, with
thrilling cheers, the noble hearts rush into the leaden torrent which
pours down the incline. With unabated fire the gallant fellows press
through. Their fierce onset is not even checked. The foe do not wait for
them,--they waver, break, and fly. The Guardsmen spur into the midst of
the rout, and their fast-falling swords work a terrible revenge. Some
of the boldest of the Southrons retreat into the woods, and continue a
murderous fire from behind trees and thickets. Seven Guard horses fall
upon a space not more that twenty feet square. As his steed sinks under
him, one of the officers is caught around the shoulders by a grape-vine,
and hangs dangling in the air until he is cut down by his friends.

The Rebel foot are flying in furious haste from the field. Some take
refuge in the fair-ground, some hurry into the cornfield, but the
greater part run along the edge of the wood, swarm over the fence into
the road, and hasten to the village. The Guardsmen follow. Zagonyi leads
them. Over the loudest roar of battle rings his clarion voice,--"Come
on, Old Kentuck! I'm with you!" And the flash of his sword-blade tells
his men where to go. As he approaches a barn, a man steps from behind
the door and lowers his rifle; but before it has reached the level,
Zagonyi's sabre-point descends upon his head, and his life-blood leaps
to the very top of the huge barn-door.

The conflict now rages through the village,--in the public square, and
along the streets. Up and down the Guards ride in squads of three or
four, and wherever they see a group of the enemy charge upon and scatter
them. It is hand to hand. No one but has a share in the fray.

There was at least one soldier in the Southern ranks. A young officer,
superbly mounted, charges alone upon a large body of the Guard. He
passes through the line unscathed, killing one man. He wheels, charges
back, and again breaks through, killing another man. A third time he
rushes upon the Federal line, a score of sabre-points confront him,
a cloud of bullets fly around him, but he pushes on until he reaches
Zagonyi