But the strangest thing in this whole wonderful fight was the conduct of the brigade commander.  Up and down the rear of the lacerated Fifth Waldron rode thrice, spurring his plunging and wounded horse close to the yelling and fighting file-closers, and shouting in a piercing voice encouragement to his men.  Stranger still, considering the character which he had borne in the army, and considering the evil deed for which he was to account on the morrow, were the words which he was distinctly and repeatedly heard to utter.  “Stand steady, men—­God is with us!” was the extraordinary battle-cry of this backslidden clergyman, this sinner above many.

And it was a prophecy of victory.  Bradley ran up his Napoleons on the right in the nick of time, and, although only one of them could be brought to bear, it was enough; the grape raked the Confederate left, broke it, and the battle was over.  In five minutes more their whole array was scattered, and the entire position open to galloping cavalry, seizing guns, standards, and prisoners.

It was in the very moment of triumph, just as the stubborn Southern line reeled back from the fence in isolated clusters, that the miraculous immunity of Waldron terminated, and he received his death wound.  A quarter of an hour later Fitz Hugh found a sorrowful group of officers gazing from a little distance upon their dying commander.

“Is the Colonel hit?” he asked, shocked and grieved, incredible as the emotion may seem.

“Don’t go near him,” called Gildersleeve, who, it will be remembered, knew or guessed his errand in camp.  “The chaplain and surgeon are there.  Let him alone.”

“He’s going to render his account,” added Gahogan.  “An’ whativer he’s done wrong, he’s made it square to-day.  Let um lave it to his brigade.”

Adjutant Wallis, who had been blubbering aloud, who had cursed the rebels and the luck energetically, and who had also been trying to pray inwardly, groaned out, “This is our last victory.  You see if it ain’t.  Bet you, two to one.”

“Hush, man!” replied Gahogan.  “We’ll win our share of urn, though we’ll have to work harder for it.  We’ll have to do more ourselves, an’ get less done for us in the way of tactics.”

“That’s so, Major,” whimpered a drummer, looking up from his duty of attending to a wounded comrade.  “He knowed how to put his men in the right place, and his men knowed when they was in the right place.  But it’s goin’ to be uphill through the steepest part of hell the rest of the way.”

Soldiers, some of them weeping, some of them bleeding, arrived constantly to inquire after their commander, only to be sent quietly back to their ranks or to the rear.  Around lay other men—­dead men, and senseless, groaning men—­all for the present unnoticed.  Everything, except the distant pursuit of the cavalry, waited for Waldron to die.  Fitz Hugh looked on silently with the tears of mingled emotions in his eyes, and with hopes