beat.

At last Dana's weakness tells upon him. He sinks down at the bottom of a
tree exhausted, but his ears are still alert. Suddenly he springs again
to his knee. "There! for God's sake listen. What is that?"

And far, far out to the southwest, far beyond the line of bluffs, there
rises upon the still morning air soft, clear, floating, and oh! sweeter
than the harmonies of seraphs, the quick, joyous notes of officer's
call. Oh, heaven! was ever reveille so blessed?

"Up with you, Rheinhart! Answer them! Blow your whole soul into it, but
make 'em hear!" shouts Wayne; and the burly young Prussian rolls over on
his back, braces his copper clarion at his lips, and rouses the echoes
of the valley with the ringing, jubilant, pealing reply. None of the
dolorous business of Roland at Roncesvalles about Rheinhart's
performance this time! It is like the bugle-horn of Roderick vich Alpine
Dhu,--

"One blast were worth a thousand men."

From rifle-pit and stunted log, from shore to shore, the timber leaps
into life and rings with the triumphant cheers of the besieged.

"Down with you, you idiots! back to your holes!" yell the officers, none
too soon, for with vengeful howls every Indian in the valley seems at
the instant to open fire, and once more the little command is encircled
by the cordon of savage sharpshooters. Holding their own fire except
where some rabid young foeman too daringly exposes himself, the men wait
and listen. Little by little the fury of the attack draws away, and only
scattering shots annoy them. They can see, though, that already many
Indians are mounting and scurrying off to the north side of the valley,
though plenty remain in the timber to keep vigilant watch over their
every move. Hunter begs permission to mount and move out with twenty men
to guide the rescuers, but there is no ammunition to warrant it. All men
are needed just where they are. Scattering shots keep coming in; the
yells of the Indians still continue; the trumpeter raises a lusty blast
from time to time, but officers and men are again all eagerly listening.

"They're coming! they're coming!" is next the cry, for distant shots are
heard, then the thunder of hoofs, the shouts and yells of excited
Indians; then warrior after warrior comes darting back over the bluffs
at the south, springing from his pony at the crest, as though for one
more shot at rapidly-advancing foe; more shots and yells; a
trumpet-blare, and then,--then ring