Bee tries to halt them furiously⁠—he stands up in his stirrups, tree-tall, while the blue flood of the North trickles over the stream and pours on and on.

He waves his sword⁠—the toyish glitter sparkles⁠—he points to a grey dyke at the top of the ravine⁠—a grey dyke of musket-holding Virginians, silent and ready.

“ Look, men, there’s Jackson’s brigade! It stands there like a stone wall. Rally behind the Virginians! ”

They rally behind them⁠—Johnston and Beauregard are there⁠—the Scotch dominie plucks a flag and carries it forward to rally the Fourth Alabama⁠—the French hussar-sword rallies them with bursting rockets of oratory⁠—his horse is shot under him, but he mounts again.