It was in the early dawn of the morning that the celebrated battle of Lipetsk commenced.

The arena of strife was a valley, broken by rugged hills, on the head waters of the Don, about two hundred miles south of Moscow.

It was a gloomy day of wind, and clouds and rain; and while the cruel tempest of man's passion swept the earth, an elemental tempest wrecked the skies.

From the morning till the evening twilight the battle raged, inspired by the antagonistic forces of haughty confidence and of despair.

Darkness separated the combatants, neither party having gained any decisive advantage.
The night was freezing cold, a chill April wind sweeping the mists over the heights, upon which the two hosts, exhausted and bleeding, slept upon their arms, each fearing a midnight surprise.