Claiborne started through the wet undergrowth at a dog trot.

Armitage, he judged, was about half a mile away, and to make their line complete Oscar should traverse an equal distance.

The soldier blood in Claiborne warmed at the prospect of a definite contest.

He grinned as it occurred to him that he had won the distinction of having a horse shot under him in an open road fight, almost within sight of the dome of the Capitol.
The brush grew thinner and the trees fewer, and he dropped down and crawled presently to the shelter of a boulder, from which he could look out upon the open and fairly level field known as the Port of Missing Men.

There as a boy he had dreamed of battles as he pondered the legend of the Lost Legion.