“Ready!” he shouted as his gunners sprang again to their pieces.
On came the column—beautifully on. How it thrilled him to see them! How it hurt to think they were his people!
“Aim!” he thundered again, and then as he looked through the gray torch made, starlighted night, he quailed in a cold sickening fear, for the old man who led them on was his grandsire, the man whom of all on earth he loved and revered the most.
Eight guns, with grim muzzles trained on the old rider and his charging column, waited but for the captain's word to hurl their double-shotted canisters of death.
And Tom Travis, in the agony of it, stood, sword in hand, stricken in dumbness and doubt. On came the column, the old warrior leading them—on and:—
“The command—the command! Give it to us, Captain,” shouted the gunners.
“Cease firing!”
The gunners dropped their lanyards with an oath, trained machines that they were.
It was a drunken German who brought a heavy sword-hilt down on the young officer's head with:
“You damned traitor!”