“It is no place to charge there.  The ground is all cut up with ravines and gullies, and they’ve got a cross-fire that sweeps it clean.  We’ll probably go in on the other flank; it’s more open there.  Here comes the chief now.”

Two officers come riding hastily around a projecting point of the slope and spur at rapid gait towards the spot where the cavalry have dismounted and are breathing their horses.  There is hardly time for salutations.  A gray-headed, keen-eyed, florid-faced old soldier is the colonel, and he is snapping with electricity, apparently.

“This way, Hull.  Come right here, and I’ll show you what you are to do.”  And, followed by Rayner, Hull, and Hayne, the chief rides sharply over to the extreme left of the position and points to the frowning ridge across the intervening swale.

“There, Hull:  there are twenty or thirty of the rascals in there who get a flank fire on us when we attack on our side.  What I want you to do is to mount your men, let them draw pistol and be all ready.  Rayner, here, will line the ridge to keep them down in front.  I’ll go back to the right and order the attack at once.  The moment we begin and you hear our shots, you give a yell, and charge full tilt across there, so as to drive out those fellows in that ravine.  We can do the rest.  Do you understand?”

“I understand, colonel; but—­is it your order that I attempt to charge mounted across that ground?”

“Why, certainly!  It isn’t the best in the world, but you can make it.  They can’t do very much damage to your men before you reach them.  It’s got to be done; it’s the only way.”

“Very good, sir:  that ends it!” is the calm, soldierly reply; and the colonel goes bounding away.

A moment later the troop is in saddle, eager, wiry, bronzed fellows every one, and the revolvers are in hand and being carefully examined.  Then Captain Hull signals to Hayne, while Rayner and three or four soldiers sit in silence, watching the man who is to lead the charge.  He dismounts at a little knoll a few feet away, tosses his reins to the trumpeter, and steps to his saddle-bags.  Hayne, too, dismounts.

Taking his watch and chain from the pocket of his hunting-shirt, he opens the saddle-bag on the near side and takes therefrom two packets,—­one heavily sealed,—­which he hands to Hayne.

“In case I—­don’t come back, you know what to do with these,—­as I told you last night.”

Hayne only looks imploringly at him:  “You are not going to leave me here, captain?”

“Yes, Hayne.  You can’t go with us.  Hark!  There they go at the right.  Are the packages all right?”

Hayne, with stunned faculties, thinking only of the charge he longs to make,—­not of the one he has to keep,—­replies he knows not what.  There is a ringing bugle-call far off among the rocks to the westward; a rousing cheer; a rattling volley.  Rayner springs off to his men on the hill-side.  Hull spurs in front of his eager troop, holding high his pistol-hand: