There is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clear.  True, he might prefer capture to death.  So long as he advances, the line will not fire—­why should it?  He can safely ride into the hostile ranks and become a prisoner of war.  But this would defeat his object.  It would not answer our question; it is necessary either that he return unharmed or be shot to death before our eyes.  Only so shall we know how to act.  If captured—­why, that might have been done by a half-dozen stragglers.

Now begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man and an army.  Our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the crest, suddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it.  He has caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all.  Some slight advantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line.  If he were here he could tell us in words.  But that is now hopeless; he must make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him, by compelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly as possible—­which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do.  Not a rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those masked and shotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperative duty of forbearance.  Besides, there has been time enough to forbid them all to fire.  True, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be no great disclosure.  But firing is infectious—­and see how rapidly he moves, with never a pause except as he whirls his horse about to take a new direction, never directly backward toward us, never directly forward toward his executioners.  All this is visible through the glass; it seems occurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enemy, whose presence, whose thoughts, whose motives we infer.  To the unaided eye there is nothing but a black figure on a white horse, tracing slow zigzags against the slope of a distant hill—­so slowly they seem almost to creep.

Now—­the glass again—­he has tired of his failure, or sees his error, or has gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if to take it at a leap, hedge and all!  One moment only and he wheels right about and is speeding like the wind straight down the slope—­toward his friends, toward his death!  Instantly the wall is topped with a fierce roll of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to right and left.  This is as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of the rifles reaches us he is down.  No, he recovers his seat; he has but pulled his horse upon its haunches.  They are up and away!  A tremendous cheer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of our feelings.  And the horse and its rider?  Yes, they are up and away.  Away, indeed—­they are making directly to our left, parallel to the now steadily blazing and smoking wall.  The rattle of the musketry is continuous, and every bullet’s target is that courageous heart.