A lull came—one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing spell—and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift passing shower of rain.
There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on his face behind the low bank with a fervent:
"Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton.
"That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close by.
"That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his voice—without even lowering his glasses.
Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve—nor, in that campaign, the soldier.
"Well, by God," said Reynolds, irritably—the bullet had gone through his sleeve. "This ain't no time to joke."
Grafton's face was still calm—he was still looking. Presently he turned and beckoned to somebody in the rear.
"There he is, now."