'll try to burn
the bridges. Don't let them do that. The North Fork's awful rough and
swollen. It'll be hard to get across.--Yes, the railroad bridge and the
wagon bridge. I can't keep up with you any longer. I ain't as young as I
once was. You're welcome, sir."

Cleave and his men came out of the village street at a run. Before them
stretched level fields, gold with sunshine and with blossoming mustard,
crossed and cumbered with numerous rail fences. Beyond these, from
behind rolling ground lightly wooded, rang a great noise of preparation,
drums, trumpets, confused voices. As the skirmishers poured into the
open and again deployed, a cannon planted on a knoll ahead spoke with
vehemence. The shell that it sent struck the road just in front of the
grey, exploded, frightfully tore a man's arm and covered all with a dun
mantle of dust. Another followed, digging up the earth in the field,
uprooting and ruining clover and mustard. A third burst overhead. A
stone wall, overtopped by rusty cedars, ran at right angles with the
road. To this cover Cleave brought the men, and they lay behind it
panting, welcoming the moment's rest and shelter, waiting for the
battery straining across the fields. The Louisianians, led by Taylor,
were pouring through the village--Ewell was behind--Jackson and the
cavalry had quite disappeared.

Lying in the shadow of the wall, waiting for the order forward, Cleave
suddenly saw again and plainly what at the moment he had seen without
noting--Stafford's face, very handsome beneath soft hat and plume,
riding with the 6th. It came now as though between eyelid and ball. The
eyes, weary and tragic, had rested upon him with intentness as he stood
and spoke with Jackson. Maury Stafford--Maury Stafford! Cleave's hand
struck the sun-warmed stone impatiently. He was not fond of deep
unhappiness--no, not even in the face of his foe! Why was it necessary
that the man should have felt thus, have thought thus, acted thus? The
fact that he himself could not contemplate without hot anger that other
fact of Stafford's thought still dwelling, dwelling upon Judith had made
him fight with determination any thought of the man at all. He could not
hurt Judith, thank God! nor make between them more misunderstanding and
mischief! Then let him go--let him go! with his beauty and his fatal
look, like a figure out of an old, master canvas!--Cleave wrenched his
thought to matters more near at hand.

The battery first seen