"Colonel Cleave, did you hear my order? Go, sir!—and think yourself fortunate that you do not go under arrest."
"Sir—Sir—"
Jackson rose. "One other word, and I take your sword. It occurs to me that I have indulged you in a freedom that—Go!"
Cleave turned with sharp precision and obeyed. Three paces took him out of the firelight into the overhanging shadow. He made a gesture of sorrow and anger. "Who says that magic's dead? Now, how long will that potion hold him?" He stumbled in the loose, bare earth, swamp and creek below him. He looked down into that trough of death. "I gained nothing, and I have done for myself! If I know him—Ugh!"
He shook himself, went on through the sultry, smoky night, alternate lantern-slides of glare and darkness, to the eastern face of the plateau. Here he found Winder, reported, and with him encountered D. H. Hill coming with Fauquier Cary from the McGehee house. "What's that?" said Hill. "He won't pursue to-night? Very well, that settles it! Maybe they'll be there in the morning, maybe not. Look here, Winder! Reynolds's taken—you remember Reynolds?"
Cary and Cleave had a moment apart. "All well, Fauquier? The general?—Edward?"
"I think so. I saw Warwick for a moment. A minie had hurt his hand—not serious, he said. Edward I have not seen."
"I had a glimpse of him this morning.—This morning!"
"Yes—long ago, is it not? You'll get your brigade after this."
The other looked at him oddly. "Will I? I strongly doubt it. Well, it seems not a large thing to-night."