They ran on westward, panting, sheltered by the grassy crest behind which soldiers lay firing over the top of the grass—­long lines of them, belly flattened to the slope, dusty blue trousers hitched up showing naked ankles and big feet pendant.  Behind them, swords drawn, stood or walked their officers, quietly encouraging them or coolly turning to look at Ailsa and Berkley as they hurried past.

In a vast tobacco field to their left, just beyond a wide cleft in the hills, a brigade of cavalry was continually changing station to avoid shell fire.  The swallow-tailed national flags, the yellow guidons with their crossed sabres, the blue State colours, streamed above their shifting squadrons as they trotted hither and thither with the leisurely precision of a peaceful field day; but here and there from the trampled earth some fallen horse raised its head in agony; here and there the plain was dotted with dark heaps that never stirred.

The wailing flight of bullets streamed steadily overhead, but, as they descended, the whistling, rushing sound grew higher and fainter.  They could see, on the plain where the cavalry was manoeuvring, the shells bursting in fountains of dirt, the ominous shrapnel cloud floating daintily above.

Far away through the grassy cleft, on wooded hillsides, delicately blue, they could see the puff of white smoke shoot out from among the trees where the Confederate batteries were planted, then hear the noise of the coming shell rushing nearer, quavering, whistling into a long-drawn howl as it raced through the gray clouds overhead.

While he guided her among the cedars at the base of the hill, one arm around her body to sustain her, he quietly but seriously berated her for her excursion to the firing line, telling her there was no need of it, no occasion for anybody except the bearers there; that Dr. Connor was furious at her and had said aloud that she had little common-sense.

Ailsa coloured painfully, but there was little spirit left in her, and she walked thankfully and humbly along beside him, resting her cheek, against his shoulder.

“Don’t scold me; I really feel half sick, Phil. . . .  From where did you come?” she added timidly.

“From the foot bridge.  They wanted a guard set there.  I found half a dozen wounded men who could handle a musket.  Lord, but the rebels came close to us that time!  When we heard those bullets they were charging the entire line of our works.  I understand that we’ve driven them all along the line.  It must be so, judging from the sound of the firing.”

“Did our hospital burn?”

“Only part of one wing.  They’re beginning to move back the wounded already. . . .  Now, dear, will you please remain with your superiors and obey orders?” he added as they came out along the banks of the little stream and saw the endless procession of stretchers recrossing the foot bridge to the left.