Curly Hatton, toiling along the slow Crest of the Henry Hill, over slippery ground, Glanced at the still-blue sky that lay so deep Above the little pines, so pooled, so calm. He thought, with the slow drowsiness of fatigue, Of Lucy feeding the white, greedy swans On the blue pool by Weatherby’s Retreat. They stretched their necks, and chattered with their wings. There was a fragrance sleeping in her hair. “ Close up, folks⁠—don’t straggle⁠—we’re going into action! ” His butterball-legs moved faster⁠—Lucy⁠—Lucy⁠—

Bee and Bartow’s brigades are broken in their turn⁠—it is fight and run away⁠—fight and run away, all day⁠—the day will go to whichever of the untried wrestlers can bear the pain of the grips an instant longer than the other.

Beauregard and Johnston hurry toward the firing⁠—McDowell has already gone⁠—