“You defy me,” he roared, advancing menacingly, holding his revolver in his clenched hand.
Phil was so amazed that he could not find voice to answer. Then his indignation at the threatening attitude of his senior swept caution aside.
“I refuse to obey you,” he cried angrily. “I shall not leave until the rebels are repulsed.”
His body trembling with passion, Phil turned from the ensign toward the soldiers standing uncertainly watching the enemy’s approach.
“Hold on, sir, begging your pardon, sir, but that won’t do,” a familiar voice cried out behind him. Phil glanced about quickly. There was O’Neil, big and strong; he had seized Lazar’s arm as he spoke and was forcing his revolver back into its holster.
Lazar’s face was deadly white; he controlled himself with difficulty. The soldiers regarded the Americans anxiously, doubtlessly realizing that their own safety depended upon the outcome of this clash of authority.
Lazar gave Phil a look full of hatred, then turned away and disappeared by the way he had come.
The lieutenant had heard enough to fear that the Americans might leave them. He turned to Phil and begged him to remain. The lad assured him that they would stand by the guns.
The soldiers were experiencing the same sensations that they had felt when their enemy had commenced the first attack. Soldiers of this stamp never become veterans.
O’Neil steadied them in his cheery voice.