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For with the prolixity of the eye-witness he was detailing the points of the battle; what troops were engaged; how the flank was turned; how the reserve was delayed; how the guns were planted; how the cavalry was ordered to charge over impracticable ground, and how in consequence he saw a squadron literally annihilated; how for hours after the fight was over a sergeant of the Dovinger Rangers pervaded the field with the guidon, calling on them by name to rally.
"Sergeant," he hailed the guidon, "where is Captain Dovinger?" The hand mechanically went to the boy's forehead in the usual military salute. "Killed, sir." "Where are the other officers of the squadron the junior captain, the lieutenants?" "Killed, sir." "What has become of the troopers?" "Killed, sir, in the last charge." There was a pause. Then Dr. Trent broke forth: "Are you a fool, boy?
"Pa'son," a husky voice spoke from out the dim comminglement of the mist and the moon, "'twas me that carried that guidon in Dovinger 's Bangers." "I know it," declared the triumphant tactician. "I recognized you as soon as I saw you again."
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