thought for any thing but the enemy. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes
flamed--he resembled a veritable king of battle.

From Stuart my glances passed to Davenant. His coolness impressed me
deeply. While giving an order, a shell burst right in his face,
enveloping horse and rider in a cloud of smoke--but when the smoke
drifted away, he was sitting his horse unmoved, and giving the order as
quietly as before.

I have not invented this picture, reader, or fancied this character. I
had the honor to enjoy the friendship of the brave boy I describe. He
was remarkable, in an epoch crowded with remarkable characters.

Stuart held his ground for an hour on the high hills of Goose Creek,
but it then became plain that he was going to be driven back. The enemy
had felt him, and discovered that the game was in their own hands. Now
they rushed on his right, left and centre, at the same moment--cavalry,
infantry, and artillery rolling on like a torrent--crossed the stream,
charged the hill--in a moment a bitter and savage combat commenced for
the possession of the crest.

Stuart rushed toward the guns. As he reached them a cannon ball carried
off the head of a cannoneer, and his horse reared with fright, nearly
trampling on the headless trunk which spouted blood. Davenant had
coolly drawn his sabre, but had given no order to retire.

"Move back the guns!" exclaimed Stuart.

"Is it necessary, general?" asked Davenant.