A whisper ran down the line.

The eyes of the men turned slowly at the sight of a single rider who advanced from the distant Union camp.

He did not take the dusty road which swept in a wide, half-circle to where the waiting troopers sat in line, but jumped a low worm-fence and came straight across the fields.
An officer he was, erect in his saddle, chin up and shoulders squared.
On his shoulders his straps had been replaced, and his saber rattled against his thigh to the rise and fall of his horse's stride.
Straight on he came till he checked his mount before the center of the waiting line, and the troopers knew that Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison had once more come into his own.
Their sabers rasped from out the scabbards and rose in a joyous, swift salute, while Morrison's once dishonored sword acknowledged it.
"_'Tention_ ..._company!_" The long line stiffened and waited for their officer to speak; yet the voice was not the voice of an officer in command, but that of a comrade and a friend.
"Thank you, boys! It's good to be back again." He swallowed something in his throat and struggled manfully to speak in even tones.

"I must ask you to be quiet--and not to--" He stopped.

Again his troop had disobeyed him--disobeyed him to a man.