roused herself, bent, and kissed the aged head lying there inert among the pillows.
"It is cannon," she breathed, softly,—"you know that sound, don't you, grandfather? Does it make you happy? Why are you smiling ? Look at me;—I understand; you want something. Shall I open the curtains? And raise the window? Ah, you wish to hear. Hark! Horsemen are passing at a gallop. What is it you wish—to see them? But they are gone, dear. If any of our soldiers come, you shall see them. That makes you happy?—that is what you desire?—to see one of our own soldiers? If they pass, I shall go out and bring one here to you—truly I shall." She paused, marvelling at the strange light that glimmered across the ravaged visage. Then she blew out the dip and stole into the hall.
"Billy!" she called, hearing him fumbling at the front door.
"Oh, Celia! The cavalry trumpets! Do you hear? I'm going out. Perhaps he may pass the house."
"Wait for me," she said; "I am not dressed. Run to the cabin and wake Moses, dear!"
She heard him open the door; the deadened thunder of the cannonade filled the house for an instant, shut out by the closing door, only to swell again to an immense unbroken volume of solemn harmony. The bird-music had ceased; distant hilltops grew brighter.
Down in the village lights faded from window and cabin; a cavalryman, signalling from the church-tower, whirled his flaming torch aside and picked up a signal-flag. Suddenly the sharp crack of a rifled cannon saluted the rising sun; a shell soared skyward through the misty glory, towered, curved, and fell, exploding among the cavalrymen, completely ruining the breakfasts of chief-trumpeter O'Halloran and kettle-drummer Pillsbury.
For a moment a geyser of ashes, coffee, and bacon rained among the men.
"Hell!" said Pillsbury, furiously, wiping his face with his dripping sleeve and spitting out ashes.
"Young kettle-drums he don't love his vittles," observed a trooper, picking up the cap that had been jerked from his head by a whirring fragment.
"Rich feedin' is the sp'ilin' o' this here hoss-band," added the farrier, stanching the flow of blood from his scalp; "quit quar'lin' with your rations, kettle-drums!"
"Y'orter swaller them cinders," insisted another; "they don't cost nothin'!"
The band, accustomed to chaffing, prepared to retire to the ambulance, where heretofore their fate had always left them among luggage, surgeons, and scared camp-niggers during an engagement.
The Rhode Island battery, placed just north of the church, had opened; the cavalry in the meadow could see them—see the whirl of the smoke, the cannoniers moving with quick precision amid the obscurity,—the flash, the recoil as gun after gun jumped back, buried in smoke.
It lasted only a few minutes; no more shells came whistling down among the cavalry; and presently the battery grew silent, and the steaming hill, belted with vapor, cleared slowly in the breezy sunshine.
The cavalry had mounted and leisurely filed off to the shelter of a grassy hollow; the band, dismounted, were drawn up to be told off in squads as stretcher-bearers; the bandmaster was sauntering past, buried in meditation, his sabre trailing a furrow through the dust, when a clatter of hoofs broke out along the village street, and a general officer followed by a plunging knot of horsemen tore up and drew bridle.
The colonel of the cavalry regiment, followed by the chief trumpeter, trotted out to meet them, saluting sharply; there was a quick exchange of words; the general officer waved his hand toward the south, wheeled his horse, hesitated, and pointed at the band.
"How many sabres?" he asked.
"Twenty-seven," replied the colonel,—"no carbines."
"Better have them play you in—if you go," said the officer.
The colonel saluted and backed his horse as the cavalcade swept past him; then he beckoned to the bandmaster.
"Here's your chance," he said. "Orders are to charge anything that appears on that road. You'll play us in this time. Mount your men."
Ten minutes later the regiment, band
