blue eyes wandered--not for curiosity, but that
he might see and dodge a coming harm.

Before him the ridge ran steeply down to a narrow depression, a little
vale, two hundred yards across. On the further side the land rose again
to as high a hill. Here was a stone fence, which even as he looked,
leaped fire. Above it were ranged the blue cannon--three batteries, well
served. North and South, muzzle to muzzle, the guns roared across the
green hollow. The blue musketrymen behind the wall were using minies. Of
all death-dealing things Steve most hated these. They came with so
unearthly a sound--zzzz-ip! zzzzz-ip!--a devil noise, a death that
shrieked, taunted, and triumphed. To-day they made his blood like water.
He crouched close, a mere lump of demoralization, behind a veil of wild
buckwheat.

Rockbridge was suffering heavily, both from the opposing Parrotts and
from sharpshooters behind the wall. A belated gun came straining up the
slope, the horses doing mightily, the men cheering. There was an opening
in a low stone wall across the hillside, below Steve. The gate had been
wrenched away and thrown aside, but the thick gatepost remained, and it
made the passage narrow--too narrow for the gun team and the carriage to
pass. All stopped and there was a colloquy.

"We've got an axe?"

"Yes, captain."

"John Agnor, you've felled many a tree. Take the axe and cut that post
down."

"Captain, I will be killed!"

"Then you will be killed doing your duty, John. Get down."

Agnor got the axe, swung it and began chopping. The stone wall across
the hollow blazed more fiercely; the sharpshooters diverted their
attention from the men and horses higher upon the hill. Agnor swung the
axe with steadiness; the chips flew far. The post was cut almost through
before his bullet came. In falling he clutched the weakened obstruction,
and the two came down together. The gun was free to pass, and it passed,
each cannoneer and driver looking once at John Agnor, lying dead with a
steady face. It found place a few yards above Steve in his corner, and
joined in the roar of its fellows, throwing solid shot and canister.

A hundred yards and more to the rear stood a barn. The wounded from all
the guns, strung like black beads along the crest, dragged themselves or
were carried to this shelter. Hope rose in Steve's heart. "Gawd! I'll
creep through the clover and git there myself." He started on hands and
knees, but once out of his corner a