His face was black with burned gunpowder.

His colonel's hat was gone and his brown hair flew in every direction.

He still clenched in his hand the hilt of his sword, of which a broken blade not more than a foot long was left.

His clothing had been torn by at least a dozen bullets, and one had made a red streak across the back of his left hand, from which the blood fell slowly, drop by drop.
"You don't mind my telling you, colonel, that you're no beauty," said Dick, who felt a sort of hysterical wish to laugh.

"You look as if the whole Southern army had tried to shoot you up, but had merely clipped you all around the borders." "Laugh if it does you good," replied Colonel Winchester, a little gravely, "but, young sir, you must give me the same privilege.