They pass the fair-ground.  They are at the corner of the lane where the wood begins.  It runs close to the fence on their left for a hundred yards, and beyond it they see white tents gleaming.  They are half-way past the forest, when, sharp and loud, a volley of musketry bursts upon the head of the column; horses stagger, riders reel and fall, but the troop presses forward undismayed.  The farther corner of the wood is reached, and Zagonyi beholds the terrible array.  Amazed, he involuntarily cheeks his horse.  The Rebels are not surprised.  There to his left they stand crowning the height, foot and horse ready to ingulf him, if he shall be rash enough to go on.  The road he is following declines rapidly.  There is but one thing to do,—­run the gantlet, gain the cover of the hill, and charge up the steep.  These thoughts pass quicker than they can be told.  He waves his sabre over his head, and shouting, “Forward! follow me! quick trot! gallop!” he dashes headlong down the stony road.  The first company and most of the second follow.  From the left a thousand muzzles belch forth a hissing flood of bullets; the poor fellows clutch wildly at the air and fall from their saddles, and maddened horses throw themselves against the fences.  Their speed is not for an instant checked; farther down the hill they fly, like wasps driven by the leaden storm.  Sharp volleys pour out of the underbrush at the left, clearing wide gaps through their ranks.  They leap the brook, take down the fence, and draw up under the shelter of the hill.  Zagonyi looks around him, and to his horror sees that only a fourth of his men are with him.  He cries, “They do not come,—­we are lost!” and frantically waves his sabre.

He has not long to wait.  The delay of the rest of the Guard was not from hesitation.  When Captain Foley reached the lower corner of the wood and saw the enemy’s line, he thought a flank attack might be advantageously made.  He ordered some of his men to dismount and take down the fence.  This was done under a severe fire.  Several men fell, and he found the wood so dense that it could not be penetrated.  Looking down the hill, he saw the flash of Zagonyi’s sabre, and at once gave the order, “Forward!” At the same time, Lieutenant Kennedy, a stalwart Kentuckian, shouted, “Come on, boys! remember Old Kentucky!” and the third company of the Guard, fire on every side of them,—­from behind trees, from under the fences,—­with thundering strides and loud cheers, poured down the slope and rushed to the side of Zagonyi.  They have lost seventy dead and wounded men, and the carcasses of horses are strewn along the lane.  Kennedy is wounded in the arm and lies upon the stones, his faithful charger standing motionless beside him.  Lieutenant Goff received a wound in the thigh; he kept his seat, and cried out, “The devils have hit me, but I will give it to them yet!”

The remnant of the Guard are now in the field under the hill, and from the shape of the ground the Rebel fire sweeps with the roar of a whirlwind over their heads.  Here we will leave them for a moment, and trace the fortunes of the Prairie Scouts.