Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets’ nest there, and the feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off through the fire of the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle, a beautiful girl who declared that she was “not at all afraid!”
These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit here at Eagle’s Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed during the war, I should never cease writing. All these must be passed over—my canvas is limited, and I have so many figures to draw, so many pictures to paint, that every square inch is valuable.
That is the vice of “memoirs,” reader. The memory is an immense receptacle—it holds every thing, and often trifles take the prominent place, instead of great events. You are interested in those trifles, when they are part of your own experience; but perhaps, they bore your listener and make him yawn—a terrible catastrophe!
So I pass to some real and bona fide “events.” Sabres are going to clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope has not forgotten are going to ride for the prize in the famous Buckland Races.
X. — I FALL A VICTIM TO TOM’S ILL-LUCK.
Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland.
There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on his mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand.
Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the crack of skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the fact was perfectly evident, that Stuart was retreating.