horsemen, might be observed, steady as rocks in the refluent tide of
war. The fire from their Winchester repeaters blazed out like the
streamers of the Northern Lights. Again and again the flower of the
United States army had charged up the mound, only to recoil in
flight, or to line the cliff with their corpses. The First Irish
Cuirassiers had been annihilated: Parnell's own, alas! in the heat
of the combat had turned their fratricidal black-thorns on
M'Carthy's brigade, and these two gallant squadrons were mixed and
broken, falling beneath the blows of brothers estranged.

But at last the fire from the Redmen on the bluff slackened and grew
silent. The ammunition was exhausted. There was a movement in the
group of braves. Crazy Horse and Bald Coyote turned to Four Hair-
Brushes, who sat his steed Atalanta, last winner of the last Grand
National, with all the old careless elegance of the Row.

"Four Hair-Brushes," said Crazy Horse (and a tear rolled down his
painted cheek), "nought is left but flight."

"Then fly," said Four Hair-Brushes, languidly, lighting a cigarette,
which he took from a diamond-studded gold etui, the gift of the
Kaiser in old days.

"Nay, not without the White Chief," said Bald Coyote; and he seized
the reins of Four Hair-Brushes, to lead him from that stricken
field.

"Vous etes trop vieux jeu, mon ami," murmured Four Hair-Brushes, "je
ne suis ni Edouard II., ni Charles Edouard e Culloden. Quatre-
brosses meurt, mais il ne se rend pas."