"Clear the way, there!" he cried.
Then, wheeling and facing his command, his voice rang out, clear as a bugle;
"A—r—m—s, 'port! Double-time, march! Ch—ar—ge, bayonets! Hurrah! Give 'em a yell, boys, and you can do it," added the colonel.
I cannot describe the shout which followed—a clear, ringing, organized whoop; fresh and vibrant; of a perfectly distinct quality from the hoarse, undisciplined howl of the mob—sounding cool and terrible, like the cry of an avenging angel.
The mob turned and fled, appalled, melting away like wax before the blue flame of the glittering bayonets, and the regiment entered the depot.
Then I took time to breathe, and remembered Thomas.
"He ain't fur f'om yere," said the boy. "Right 'roun' d' corner."
And we passed out of the shelter of the doorway to a small, dirty alley, about twenty-five yards distant, where I found the old man resting against a lamp-post, the blood streaming down his face from a ghastly wound in the head, and his eyes closed. I made the boy get some water, and after bathing his face for a few moments, I succeeded in rousing him.
"Is that you, Mist' Dunkin?" he asked, faintly.
"Yes. How do you feel, Thomas?"