A brisk renewal of the firing broke out and stray bullets came flitting and droning by.  Then came the crash of two clean, definite volleys, followed by a continuous rattle, through which he heard the yells and cheers of the combatants, punctuated by thunderclaps of cannon.  All this told him that Armisted’s little command was bitterly beset and fighting at close quarters.  The wounded men whom he had distanced began to straggle by on either hand, their numbers visibly augmented by new levies from the line.  Singly and by twos and threes, some supporting comrades more desperately hurt than themselves, but all deaf to his appeals for assistance, they sifted through the underbrush and disappeared.  The firing was increasingly louder and more distinct, and presently the ailing fugitives were succeeded by men who strode with a firmer tread, occasionally facing about and discharging their pieces, then doggedly resuming their retreat, reloading as they walked.  Two or three fell as he looked, and lay motionless.  One had enough of life left in him to make a pitiful attempt to drag himself to cover.  A passing comrade paused beside him long enough to fire, appraised the poor devil’s disability with a look and moved sullenly on, inserting a cartridge in his weapon.

In all this was none of the pomp of war—­no hint of glory.  Even in his distress and peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to contrast it with the gorgeous parades and reviews held in honor of himself—­with the brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and the marching.  It was an ugly and sickening business:  to all that was artistic in his nature, revolting, brutal, in bad taste.

“Ugh!” he grunted, shuddering—­“this is beastly!  Where is the charm of it all?  Where are the elevated sentiments, the devotion, the heroism, the—­”

From a point somewhere near, in the direction of the pursuing enemy, rose the clear, deliberate sing-song of Captain Armisted.

“Stead-y, men—­stead-y.  Halt!  Com-mence fir-ing.”

The rattle of fewer than a score of rifles could be distinguished through the general uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto: 

“Cease fir-ing.  In re-treat... maaarch!”

In a few moments this remnant had drifted slowly past the Governor, all to the right of him as they faced in retiring, the men deployed at intervals of a half-dozen paces.  At the extreme left and a few yards behind came the captain.  The civilian called out his name, but he did not hear.  A swarm of men in gray now broke out of cover in pursuit, making directly for the spot where the Governor lay—­some accident of the ground had caused them to converge upon that point:  their line had become a crowd.  In a last struggle for life and liberty the Governor attempted to rise, and looking back the captain saw him.  Promptly, but with the same slow precision as before, he sang his commands: 

“Skirm-ish-ers, halt!” The men stopped and according to rule turned to face the enemy.