“Awful! awful!” moaned the girl.

“Oh! if Madison is meeting that onset!” shrieked Mrs. Whately, beside herself with horror, yet compelled to look by a terrible fascination.

Just as the two opposing forces dashed together a bolt of lightning gleamed over them, turning the upraised sabres for an instant into swords of fire.  The crash of thunder followed so swiftly that it appeared to result from the impact of the two charging lines.  An impression of annihilation was given, but so far was it from being realized, that the slope was seen to be alive with a struggling, seething mass, waving back and forth, at first downward, then stationary, then gradually upward, upward, until Mr. Baron shouted, “Hurrah! our men are carrying the ridge!”

The cry was scarcely uttered before another dark line of horsemen on the far right was seen galloping forward toward the Confederate flank.  Again there was another vivid flash, lighting up the scene with a lurid, momentary glare.  The peal which followed created the illusion of sounding this new charge or else to be the thunder of the onset.  It turned the fortune of the battle on the right, for the Confederates were seen to pause, and finally to give back slowly and stubbornly.  Then the advancing rainfall began to blot the combatants from view.

Suddenly the Union artillery opened.  It seemed to the terrified spectators on the veranda as if the shells were shrieking directly toward them, but the iron bolts tore their way through the grove, although much nearer the house than before.  The reason soon became apparent.  On that ridge, and within the gloomy shadows of the trees, were officers as coolly observant as if playing a game of chess.  They gave no more heed to the terrific peals of thunder than they would have done to so many Chinese gongs.  While watching the attack upon his centre and providing against it, General Marston was also seeking to penetrate, by means of a powerful glass, the mask of the grove, and so detected a concentration on his left.  Instantly his guns began to shell the grove near the house, where the assaulting force was massing.  His reserves were ordered forward, and instructions rapidly given to the colonel who was to repel the attack; meanwhile his field-glass was glued to his eyes.

Soon he cried, “It will be their supreme effort.  We must strike a stunning blow in order to get away in safety,” and he sprang on his horse and started the charge himself.

The men, adoring their leader, followed with stern resolve and high enthusiasm.  Scoville, who had returned, reported and rested somewhat, knew how critical was the moment.  He rode close to the general, but did not fall out when the wary commanding officer permitted the human bolt he had launched to pass beyond him.  He was responsible for the entire force, and must do just enough and no more.  He must still keep his eyes on all parts of the field and his brain ready to direct when the result of the charge was known.  More than the military necessity of repelling the Confederate charge bursting from the grove occupied the mind of Scoville.  It looked to him as if the fight would take place about the very home of the girl to whom his heart was so tender, and his impulse was to be near, to protect and defend.