Shot after shot now came from the front.  There were shoutings and confusion, hoof-beats and desultory cheers.  Away to the rear, in the sleeping camp, were a singing of bugles and grumble of drums.  Pushing through the thickets on either side the roads came the Federal pickets, in full retreat, firing backward at random as they ran.  A straggling group that had followed back one of the roads, as instructed, suddenly sprang away into the bushes as half a hundred horsemen thundered by them, striking wildly with their sabres as they passed.  At headlong speed these mounted madmen shot past the spot where Byring had sat, and vanished round an angle of the road, shouting and firing their pistols.  A moment later there was a roar of musketry, followed by dropping shots—­they had encountered the reserve-guard in line; and back they came in dire confusion, with here and there an empty saddle and many a maddened horse, bullet-stung, snorting and plunging with pain.  It was all over—­“an affair of outposts.”

The line was reestablished with fresh men, the roll called, the stragglers were reformed.  The Federal commander with a part of his staff, imperfectly clad, appeared upon the scene, asked a few questions, looked exceedingly wise and retired.  After standing at arms for an hour the brigade in camp “swore a prayer or two” and went to bed.

Early the next morning a fatigue-party, commanded by a captain and accompanied by a surgeon, searched the ground for dead and wounded.  At the fork of the road, a little to one side, they found two bodies lying close together—­that of a Federal officer and that of a Confederate private.  The officer had died of a sword-thrust through the heart, but not, apparently, until he had inflicted upon his enemy no fewer than five dreadful wounds.  The dead officer lay on his face in a pool of blood, the weapon still in his breast.  They turned him on his back and the surgeon removed it.

“Gad!” said the captain—­“It is Byring!”—­adding, with a glance at the other, “They had a tough tussle.”

The surgeon was examining the sword.  It was that of a line officer of Federal infantry—­exactly like the one worn by the captain.  It was, in fact, Byring’s own.  The only other weapon discovered was an undischarged revolver in the dead officer’s belt.

The surgeon laid down the sword and approached the other body.  It was frightfully gashed and stabbed, but there was no blood.  He took hold of the left foot and tried to straighten the leg.  In the effort the body was displaced.  The dead do not wish to be moved—­it protested with a faint, sickening odor.  Where it had lain were a few maggots, manifesting an imbecile activity.

The surgeon looked at the captain.  The captain looked at the surgeon.

ONE OF TWINS A LETTER FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE MORTIMER BARR

You ask me if in my experience as one of a pair of twins I ever observed anything unaccountable by the natural laws with which we have acquaintance.  As to that you shall judge; perhaps we have not all acquaintance with the same natural laws.  You may know some that I do not, and what is to me unaccountable may be very clear to you.