“Colonel,” said the adjutant-general, “I don’t know that I ought to say anything, but there is something wrong in all this.  Do you happen to know that Captain Coulter is from the South?”

“No; was he, indeed?”

“I heard that last summer the division which the general then commanded was in the vicinity of Coulter’s home—­camped there for weeks, and—­”

“Listen!” said the colonel, interrupting with an upward gesture.  “Do you hear that?”

“That” was the silence of the Federal gun.  The staff, the orderlies, the lines of infantry behind the crest—­all had “heard,” and were looking curiously in the direction of the crater, whence no smoke now ascended except desultory cloudlets from the enemy’s shells.  Then came the blare of a bugle, a faint rattle of wheels; a minute later the sharp reports recommenced with double activity.  The demolished gun had been replaced with a sound one.

“Yes,” said the adjutant-general, resuming his narrative, “the general made the acquaintance of Coulter’s family.  There was trouble—­I don’t know the exact nature of it—­something about Coulter’s wife.  She is a red-hot Secessionist, as they all are, except Coulter himself, but she is a good wife and high-bred lady.  There was a complaint to army headquarters.  The general was transferred to this division.  It is odd that Coulter’s battery should afterward have been assigned to it.”

The colonel had risen from the rock upon which they had been sitting.  His eyes were blazing with a generous indignation.

“See here, Morrison,” said he, looking his gossiping staff officer straight in the face, “did you get that story from a gentleman or a liar?”

“I don’t want to say how I got it, Colonel, unless it is necessary”—­he was blushing a trifle—­“but I’ll stake my life upon its truth in the main.”

The colonel turned toward a small knot of officers some distance away.  “Lieutenant Williams!” he shouted.

One of the officers detached himself from the group and coming forward saluted, saying:  “Pardon me, Colonel, I thought you had been informed.  Williams is dead down there by the gun.  What can I do, sir?”

Lieutenant Williams was the aide who had had the pleasure of conveying to the officer in charge of the gun his brigade commander’s congratulations.

“Go,” said the colonel, “and direct the withdrawal of that gun instantly.  No—­I’ll go myself.”

He strode down the declivity toward the rear of the Notch at a break-neck pace, over rocks and through brambles, followed by his little retinue in tumultuous disorder.  At the foot of the declivity they mounted their waiting animals and took to the road at a lively trot, round a bend and into the Notch.  The spectacle which they encountered there was appalling!