John
Ring used to handle it adoringly, and kept it
polished to brilliancy.--It's dull enough these
many years,'' he added, somberly. ``To Ring
it represented not only his captain, but the very
glory and pomp of war.
``One day the Confederates suddenly stormed
our position near New Berne and swept through
the camp, driving our entire force before them;
and all, including my company, retreated hurriedly
across the river, setting fire to a long wooden
bridge as we went over. It soon blazed up furiously,
making a barrier that the Confederates
could not pass.
``But, unknown to everybody, and unnoticed,
John Ring had dashed back to my tent. I think
he was able to make his way back because he just
looked like a mere boy; but however that was, he
got past the Confederates into my tent and took
down, from where it was hanging on the tent-
pole, my bright, gold-scabbarded sword.
``John Ring seized the sword that had long been
so precious to him. He dodged here and there,
and actually managed to gain the bridge just as it
was beginning to blaze. He started across. The
flames were every moment getting fiercer, the
smoke denser, and now and then, as he crawled
and staggered on, he leaned for a few seconds far
over the edge of the bridge in an effort to get air.
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