The horse lay still.  Penhallow’s first sensation was astonishment; then he began to make efforts to get free.  His arms were of no use.  He tried to stir his horse with the spur of the free foot.  It had no effect.  Something must be wrong with him.  He had himself a feeling of weakness he could not comprehend, aware that he had no wound of the trunk.  His useless arms made all effort vain, and the left foot under the weight of the horse began to feel numb.  The position struck him as past help until our people charged.  He thought of Francis’s axiom that there was nothing so entirely tragic as to be without some marginalia of humour.  The lad smiled at his use of the word.  His own situation appealed to him as ridiculous—­a man with a horse on him waiting for an army to lift it off.

The left elbow began to recover from the early insensibility of shock and to be painful.  Then in the dim light, as he lifted his head, he was aware of a Rebel soldier in front covering him with a revolver.  Penhallow cried out with promptness, “I surrender—­and I am shot through both arms.”

The soldier said, “You are not worth taking—­guess you’ll keep till we lick the Yanks,” and walking around the helpless officer he appropriated his revolver.

“Can you get my horse up?” said John.

“Horse up!  I want your boots.”

“Well, pull them off—­I can’t.”

“Oh, don’t you bother, I’ll get them.”  With this he knelt down and began on the boot which belonged to the leg projecting beneath the horse.  “Darn it!  They’re just my size.”  As he tugged at it, Hoodoo dying and convulsed struck out with his fore legs and caught the unlucky soldier full in the belly.  The man gave a wild cry and staggering back fell.

Penhallow craned over the horse’s body and broke into laughter.  It hurt his arm, but he gasped with fierce joy, “Francis would call him a freebooter.”  Then he fell back and quite helpless listened.  Unable to turn his head, he heard behind him the wild rush of men.  Leaping over horse and man they went by.  He got a look to right and left.  They tore through the slashes, dropping fast and facing a furious fusillade were lost to sight in the underbrush.  “By George! they’ve won,” he exclaimed and fell back.  “They must have carried the parapet.”  He waited.  In about a half hour a party of men in grey went by.  An officer in blue cried out, “Up the hill, you beggars!” More of the grey men followed—­a battle-grimed mob of hundreds.

“Halloa!” called Penhallow.  “Get this horse up.  Put your hand in my pocket and you will find fifty dollars.”  They stopped short and a half dozen men lifted the dead animal.  “Thank you, set me on my feet,” said Penhallow.  “Empty my pockets—­I can’t use my arms.”  They did it well, and taking also his watch went on their way well pleased.

John stood still, the blood tingling in his numb foot.  “Halloa!” he cried, as the stretcher-bearers and surgeons came near.  A headquarters surgeon said, “We thought you were killed.  Can you walk?”