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,—­he presses his pistol so close to the Major’s side that he feels it and draws convulsively back, the bullet passes through the front of Zagonyi’s coat, who at the instant runs the daring Rebel through the body, he falls, and the men, thinking their commander hurt, kill him with half a dozen wounds.

“He was a brave man,” said Zagonyi afterwards, “and I did wish to make him prisoner.”

Meanwhile it has grown dark.  The foe have left the village and the battle has ceased.  The assembly is sounded, and the Guard gathers in the Plaza.  Not more than eighty mounted men appear:  the rest are killed, wounded, or unhorsed.  At this time one of the most characteristic incidents of the affair took place.