Colonel Winchester was speaking, and he put a firm and friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder.  Dick came back to life, and, looking into his colonel’s face, he grinned.  Colonel Winchester could have been recognized only at close range.  His face was black with burned gunpowder.  His colonel’s hat was gone and his brown hair flew in every direction.  He still clenched in his hand the hilt of his sword, of which a broken blade not more than a foot long was left.  His clothing had been torn by at least a dozen bullets, and one had made a red streak across the back of his left hand, from which the blood fell slowly, drop by drop.

“You don’t mind my telling you, colonel, that you’re no beauty,” said Dick, who felt a sort of hysterical wish to laugh.  “You look as if the whole Southern army had tried to shoot you up, but had merely clipped you all around the borders.”

“Laugh if it does you good,” replied Colonel Winchester, a little gravely, “but, young sir, you must give me the same privilege.  This battle, while it has not wounded you, has covered you with its grime.  Come, the fighting is over for this day at least, and the regiment is going to take a rest—­what there is left of it.”

He spoke the last words sadly.  He knew the terrible cost at which they had driven the Southern army back into the fort, and he feared that the full price was yet far from being paid.  But he preserved a cheerful manner before the brave lads of his who had fought so well.

Dick found that Warner and Pennington both had wounds, although they were too slight to incapacitate them.  Sergeant Whitley, grave and unhurt, rejoined them also.

The winter night and their heavy losses could not discourage the Northern troops.  They shared the courage and tenacity of their commander.  They began to believe now that Donelson, despite its strength and its formidable garrison, would be taken.  They built the fires high, and ate heartily.  They talked in sanguine tones of what they would do in the morrow.  Excited comment ran among them.  They had passed from the pit of despair in the morning to the apex of hope at night.  Exhausted, all save the pickets fell asleep after a while, dreaming of fresh triumphs on the morrow.

Had Dick’s eyes been able to penetrate Donelson he would have beheld a very different scene.  Gloom, even more, despair, reigned there.  Their great effort had failed.  Bravery had availed nothing.  Their frightful losses had been suffered in vain.  The generals blamed one another.  Floyd favored the surrender of the army, but fancying that the Union troops hated him with special vindictiveness, and that he would not be safe as a prisoner, decided to escape.

Pillow declared that Grant could yet be beaten, but after a while changed to the view of Floyd.  They yet had two small steamers in the Cumberland which could carry them up the river.  They left the command to Buckner, the third in rank, and told him he could make the surrender.  The black-bearded Forrest said grimly:  “I ain’t goin’ to surrender my cavalry, not to nobody,” and by devious paths he led them away through the darkness and to liberty.  Colonel George Kenton rode with him.