feet, blew the back of his head off.  Some of the Riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in the shade.  One of them pulled out of a dead Spaniard’s pocket cigarettes, cigars, and a lady’s slipper of white satin; with a grunt he put the slipper back.  Below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under a tree, crying as though they were broken-hearted, and a big trooper walked up and patted them both kindly on the head.

“Don’t cry, boys; it’s all right—­all right,” he said, helplessly.

* * * * *

Over at the block-house, Crittenden stopped firing suddenly, and, turning to his men, shouted: 

“Get back over the hill boys, they’re going to start in again.”  As they ran back, a Lieutenant-Colonel met them.

“Are you in command?”

Crittenden saluted.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said the old Sergeant at his side.  “He was.  He brought these men up the hill.”

“The hell he did.  Where are your officers?”

The old Sergeant motioned toward the valley below, and Crittenden opened his lips to explain, but just then the sudden impression came to him that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and he tried to wheel around—­his face amazed and wondering.  Then he dropped.  He wondered, too, why he couldn’t get around, and then he wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth.  Darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought—­he had been shot in the back.  He did think of his mother and of Judith—­but it was a fleeting vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in front.  And then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at least be found on top of the hill, and beyond the Spaniard’s trench, and he saw Blackford’s face above him.  Then he was dropped heavily to the ground again and Blackford pitched across his body.  There was one glimpse of Abe Long’s anxious face above him, another vision of Judith, and then quiet, painless darkness.

* * * * *

It was fiercer firing now than ever.  The Spaniards were in the second line of trenches and were making a sortie.  Under the hill sat Grafton and another correspondent while the storm of bullets swept over them.  Grafton was without glasses—­a Mauser had furrowed the skin on the bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacle-frame so that one glass dropped on one side of his nose and the other on the other.  The other man had several narrow squeaks, as he called them, and, even as they sat, a bullet cut a leaf over his head and it dropped between the pages of his note-book.  He closed the book and looked up.

“Thanks,” he said.  “That’s just what I want—­I’ll keep that.”