directed to put that brigade out of action, capture, or destroy it. He could not besiege it and starve it out. It was a problem.
While he was hesitating, Jack Broadhead, who had been left behind at head-quarters for a day, came galloping up with a few troopers as his escort. His quick, soldierly eye took in the desperate situation. After the necessary salutes had been exchanged a little conversation took place.
"That is a strong position. Bob."
"It is that, Jack."
"That fellow is a soldier, every inch of him."
"We knew that before."
"Yes. Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I hardly know. Think we can take it?"
"Well, I don't know. Looks dubious. But we've got a crowd here that will storm hell itself if somebody leads, you know."
"I'll lead, but this is worse than hell."
"Oh, by the way," Broadhead burst out, as a flash of recollection came to him, "I have a letter for you. It came just as I was leaving head-quarters."
He fumbled in the breast of his jacket, and as Kirke stretched out his hand indifferently he gave him the letter. The man's face changed slightly. A look of softness mitigated the iron aspect of his visage.
"Ah," he said in a rarely communicative moment, "from my wife."
He tore it open. A glance put him in possession of its contents. Again his face changed. It was hard and grim at best, but never, thought Broadhead, as he idly watched him, had he exhibited a grimmer and harder look than at this moment. And there was a gleam almost of agony in the man's eyes. His lips trembled—and for Kirke's lips to tremble was a thing unheard of! Broadhead saw him clench his teeth together and by a mighty effort regain his self-control. During the struggle he had crushed the letter in his hand.
After a minute he unclosed his fingers, smoothed out the paper, took out his pencil, and wrote a brief endorsement upon the bottom of it, signed his name, folded it up. and thrust it in the pocket of his coat.
"If anything happens to me, Broadhead,"—and there was a harsher ring than usual in his voice,—"this letter is to go back—to—to—my—the writer."
"Very good," said Broadhead, who knew his superior too well to question him as to what had occurred. "I take it that you have decided to attack?"
"Yes. Men," said Kirke, wheeling his horse and facing the iron veterans who had come to love him as few soldiers were ever loved by
