A large man sat in the shadow of a little rain-washed tent one golden May morning and gazed with unseeing eyes at the rich spectacle spread before him by Nature. The sky was a dome of blue velvet, mottled with white clouds, and against the line of the horizon a belt of intense green told where the forest was springing into new life under the vivid touch of spring. The wind bore a faint, thrilling odour of violets.

The leader was casting up accounts and trying in vain to put the balance on his own side of the ledger. He dealt much with figures, but they were never large enough for his purpose, and with the brave man’s faith he could trust only in some new and strange source of supply. Gettysburg, that drawn field of glorious defeat, lay behind him, and his foe, as he knew, was gathering all his forces and choosing his ablest leader that he might hurl his utmost strength upon these thin battalions. But the soul of the lonely man rose to the crisis.

Everything about him was cast in a large mould, and the dignity and slow gravity of his manner added to his size. Thus he was not only a leader, but he had the look of one which is far from being always so. Yet his habitual expression was of calm benevolence, his gestures whenever he moved were gentle, and his gray eyes shed a mild light. His fine white hair and beard contributed to his fatherly appearance. One might have pointed him out as the president of a famous college or the leader of a reform movement so little does Nature indicate a man’s trade by his face.

Those around the gray-haired chief, whose camp spread for miles through the green forest, were singularly unlike him in manner and bearing, and perhaps it was this sharp contrast that gave to him as he sat among his battalions the air of a patriarch. He was old; they were young. He was white of head, but one might search in vain through these ragged regiments for a gray hair. They were but boys, though they had passed through some of the greatest battles the world has ever known, and to-day, when there was a pause in the war and the wind blew from the south, they refused to be sad or to fear for the future. If the truth be told, the future was the smallest item in their reckoning. Men of their trade, especially with their youth, found the present so large that room was left for nothing else. They would take their ease now and rejoice.

Now and then they looked toward the other and larger army that lay facing them not far away, but it did not trouble them greatly. There was by mutual though tacit consent an interval of peace, and these foes, who had learned in fire and smoke to honour each other, would not break it through any act of bad faith. So some slept on the grass or the fresh-cut boughs of trees; others sang or listened to the music of old violins or accordions, while more talked on any subject that came into their minds, though their voices sank when it was of far homes not seen since long ago. Of the hostile camp facing theirs a like tale might have been told.

It seemed to Prescott, who sat near the General’s tent, as if two huge picnic parties had camped near each other with the probability that they would join and become one in a short time an illusion arising from the fact that he had gone into the war without any deep feeling over its real or alleged causes.

“Why do you study the Yankees so hard?” asked Talbot, who lay in the shade of a tree. “They are not troubling us, and I learned when I cut my eye teeth not to bother with a man who isn’t bothering me a rule that works well.”

“To tell you the truth, Talbot,” replied Prescott, “I was wondering how all this would end.”

“The more fool you,” rejoined Talbot. “Leave all that to Marse Bob. Didn’t you see how hard he was thinking back there?”

Prescott scarcely heard his words, as his eyes were caught by an unusual movement in the hostile camp. He carried a pair of strong glasses, being a staff officer, and putting them to his eyes he saw at once that an event of uncommon interest was occurring within the lines of the Northern army. There was a great gathering of officers near a large tent, and beyond them the soldiers were pressing near. A puff of smoke appeared suddenly, followed by a spurt of flame, and the sound of a cannon shot thundered in their ears.

Talbot uttered an angry cry.

“What do they mean by firing on us when we’re not bothering them?” he cried.

But neither shot nor shell struck near the lines of the Southern army. Peace still reigned unbroken. There was another flash of fire, another cannon shot, and then a third. More followed at regular intervals. They sounded like a signal or a salute.

“I wonder what it can mean?” said Prescott.

“If you want to find out, ask,” said Talbot, and taking his comrade by the arm, he walked toward a line of Northern sentinels posted in a wood on their right.

“I’ve established easy communication,” said Talbot; “there’s a right good fellow from Vermont over here at the creek bank. He talks through his nose, but that don’t hurt him. I traded him some whisky for a pouch of tobacco last night, and he’ll tell us what the row is about.”

Prescott accepted his suggestion without hesitation. It was common enough for the pickets on either side to grow friendly both before and after those terrific but indecisive battles so characteristic of the Civil War, a habit in which the subordinate officers sometimes shared while those of a higher rank closed their eyes. It did no military injury, and contributed somewhat to the smoothness and grace of life. The thunder of the guns, each coming after its stated interval, echoed again in their ears. A great cloud of yellowish-brown smoke rose above the trees. Prescott used his glasses once more, but he was yet unable to discover the cause of the commotion. Talbot, putting his fingers to his lips, blew a soft, low but penetrating whistle, like the distant note of a mocking-bird. A tall, thin man in faded blue, with a straggling beard on his face and a rifle in his hand, came forward among the trees.

“What do you want, Johnny Reb?” he asked in high and thin but friendly tones.

“Nothing that will cost you anything, Old Vermont,” replied Talbot.

“Wall, spit it out,” said the Vermonter. “If I’d been born in your State I’d commit suicide if anybody found it out. Ain’t your State the place where all they need is more water and better society, just the same as hell?”

“I remember a friend of mine,” said Talbot, “who took a trip once with four other men. He said they were a gentleman from South Carolina, a man from Maryland, a fellow from New York, and a damned scoundrel from Vermont. I think he hit it off just about right.”

The Vermonter grinned, his mouth forming a wide chasm across the thin face. He regarded the Southerner with extreme good nature.

“Say, old Johnny Reb,” he asked, “what do you fellows want anyway?”

“We’d like to know when your army is going to retreat, and we have come over here to ask you,” replied Talbot.

The cannon boomed again, its thunder rolling and echoing in the morning air. The note was deep and solemn and seemed to Prescott to hold a threat. Its effect upon the Vermonter was remarkable. He straightened his thin, lean figure until he stood as stiff as a ramrod. Then dropping his rifle, he raised his hand and gave the cannon an invisible salute.

“This army never retreats again,” he said. “You hear me, Johnny Reb, the Army of the Potomac never goes back again. I know that you have whipped us more than once, and that you have whipped us bad. I don’t forget Manassas and Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, but all that’s done past and gone. We didn’t have good generals then, and you won’t do it again never again, I say. We’re comin’, Johnny Reb, with the biggest and best army we’ve had, and we’ll just naturally sweep you off the face of the earth.”

The emphasis with which he spoke and his sudden change of manner at the cannon shot impressed Prescott, coming, too, upon his own feeling that there was a solemn and ominous note in the sound of the gun.

“What do those shots mean?” he asked. “Are they not a salute for somebody?”

“Yes,” replied the Vermonter, a glow of joy appearing in his eye. “Grant has come!”

“Ah!”

“He’s to command us now,” the Vermonter continued, “and you know what that means. You have got to stand up and take your medicine. You hear me telling you!”

A sudden thrill of apprehension ran through Prescott’s veins. He had been hearing for a long time of this man Grant and his great deeds in the West, where no general of the South seemed able to stand before him. Now he was here in the East among that group of officers yonder, and there was nothing left for either side but to fight. Grant would permit no other choice; he was not like the other Northern generals he would not find excuses, and in his fancy double and triple the force before him, but he would drive straight for the heart of his foe.

It was a curious chance, but as the echo of the last gun rolled away among the trees the skies were darkened by leaden clouds rolling up from the southwest and the air became somber and heavy. Prescott saw as if in a vision the mighty battles that were to come and the miles of fallen scattered through all the wilderness that lay around them.

But Talbot, gifted with a joyous soul that looked not far into the future, never flinched. He saw the cloud on the face of Prescott and the glow in the eyes of the Vermonter, but he was stirred by no tumult.

“Never mind,” he said calmly. “You’ve got your Grant and you are welcome to him, but Marse Bob is back there waiting for him.” And he nodded over his shoulder toward the tent where the lone man had been sitting. His face as he spoke was lighted by the smile of supreme confidence.

They thanked the man for his news and walked slowly back to their camp, Prescott thoughtful all the way. He knew now that the crisis had come.

The two great protagonists stood face to face at last.

When Robert announced the arrival of Grant to his Commander-in-Chief a single flash appeared in the eye of Lee and then the mask settled back over his face, as blank and expressionless as before.

Then Prescott left the General’s tent and walked toward a little house that stood in the rear of the army, well beyond the range of a hostile cannon shot. The arrival of Grant, now conceded by North and South alike to be the ablest general on the Northern side, was spreading with great swiftness among the soldiers, but these boys, veterans of many fields, showed little concern; they lived in the present and thought little of “next week.”

Prescott noted, as he had noted so many times before, the motley appearance of the army, but with involuntary motion he began to straighten and smooth his own shabby uniform. He was about to enter the presence of a woman and he was young and so was she.

The house was a cheap and plain structure, such as a farmer in that sterile region would build for himself; but farmer and family were gone long since, swept away by the tide of war, and their home was used for other purposes.

Prescott knocked lightly at the door and Helen Harley opened it.

“Can the Colonel see me?” he asked.

“He will see any one if we let him,” she replied.

“Then I am just ’any one’!”

“I did not say that,” she replied with a smile.

She stood aside and Prescott entered the room, a bare place, the rude log walls covered with neither lath nor plaster, yet not wholly lacking in proof that woman was present. The scanty articles of furniture were arranged with taste, and against the walls were tacked a few sheets from last year’s New York and London illustrated weeklies. Vincent Harley lay on a pallet of blankets in the corner, a petulant look on his face.

“I’m glad to see you, Prescott,” he said, “and then I’m not, because you fill my soul with envy. Here I am, tied to these blankets, while you can walk about and breathe God’s air as you will. I wouldn’t mind it so much if I had got that bullet in a big battle, say like Gettysburg, but to be knocked off one’s horse as nice as you please in a beggarly little skirmish. It’s too much, I say.”

“You ought to be thankful that the bullet, instead of putting you on the ground, didn’t put you under it,” replied Prescott.

“Now, don’t you try the pious and thankful dodge on me!” cried Harley. “Helen does it now and then, but I stop her, even if I have to be impolite to a lady. I wouldn’t mind your feelings at all.”

His sister sat down on a camp stool. It was easy to see that she understood her brother’s temper and knew how to receive his outbursts.

“There you are again, Helen,” he cried, seeing her look. “A smile like that indicates a belief in your own superiority. I wish you wouldn’t do it. You hurt my vanity, and you are too good a sister for that.”

Prescott laughed.

“I think you are getting well fast, Harley,” he said. “You show too much energy for an invalid.”

“I wish the surgeon thought the same,” replied Harley, “but that doctor is feeble-minded; I know he is! Isn’t he, Helen?”

“Perhaps he’s keeping you here because he doesn’t want us to beat the Yankees too soon,” she replied.

“Isn’t it true, Prescott, that a man is always appreciated least by his own family?” he asked.

He spoke as if in jest, but there was a trace of vanity, and Prescott hesitated for a reply, not wishing to appear in a false light to either brother or sister.

“Slow praise is worth the most,” he replied ambiguously. Harley showed disappointment. He craved a compliment and he expected it.

While they talked Prescott was watching Helen Harley out of the corner of his eye. Outside were the wild soldiers and war; here, between these narrow log walls, he beheld woman and peace. He was seized with a sudden sick distaste of the war, its endless battles, its terrible slaughter, and the doubt of what was to come after.

Harley claimed his attention, for he could not bear to be ignored. Moreover, he was wounded, and with all due deference to his sister, the visit was to him.

“Does either army mean to move?” he asked.

“I think so; I came to tell you about it,” replied Prescott.

Harley at once was full of eagerness. This touched him on his strongest side. He was a warrior by instinct, and his interest in the affairs of the army could never be languid.

“Why, what news have you?” he asked quickly.

“Grant has come!”

He uttered an exclamation, but for a little while made no further comment. Like all the others, he seemed to accept the arrival of the new Northern leader as the signal for immediate action, and he wished to think over it.

“Grant,” he said presently, “will attack us, and you don’t know what it costs me to be lying here. I must be up and I will. Don’t you see what is coming? Don’t you see it, I say?”

“What is it that you see?” asked Prescott.

“Why, General Lee is going to win the greatest victory of the age. He will beat their biggest army, led by their best General. Why, I see it now! It will be the tactics of Chancellorsville over again. What a pity Jackson is gone! But there’s Wood. He’ll make a circuit with ten thousand men and hit ’em on the right flank, and at the same time I’ll go around with my cavalry and dig into ’em on the left. The Yankees won’t be dreaming of it, for Bobby Lee will be pounding ’em in front and they’ll have eyes only for him. Won’t it be grand, magnificent!”

There was a flash in his eye now and he was no longer irritable or impatient.

“Isn’t war a glorious game?” he said. “Of course it is best not to have war, but if we must have it, it draws out of a man the best that is in him, if he’s any good at all.”

There was a light knock at the door, and Prescott, who was contrasting brother and sister, noticed their countenances change oddly and in a manner as different as their characters. Evidently they knew the knock. She closed her lips tightly and a faint pink tint in her cheeks deepened. He looked up quickly and the light in his eyes spoke welcome. “Come in!” he called in a loud voice, but his sister said nothing.

The lady who entered was Mrs. Markham, as crisp as the breath of the morning. Her dress was fresh and bright in colour, a brilliant note in a somber camp.

“Oh, Colonel!” she cried, going forward and taking both of Harley’s hands in the warmth of her welcome. “I have been so anxious to see you again, and I am glad to know that you are getting well.”

A pleased smile came over Harley’s face and remained there. Here was one, and above all a woman, who could appreciate him at his true value, and whom no small drop of jealousy or envy kept from saying so.

“You give me too much credit, Mrs. Markham,” he said.

“Not at all, my dear Colonel,” she replied vivaciously. “It is not enough. One who wins laurels on such a terrible field as war has a right to wear them. Do not all of us remember that great charge of yours just at the critical moment, and the splendid way in which you covered the retreat from Gettysburg. You always do your duty, Colonel.”

“My brother is not the only man in the army who does his duty,” said Miss Harley, “and there are so many who are always true that he does not like to be singled out for special praise.”

Colonel Harley frowned and Mrs. Markham shot a warning side glance at Miss Harley. Prescott, keenly watching them both, saw a flash as of perfect understanding and defiance pass between two pairs of eyes and then he saw nothing more. Miss Harley was intent upon her work, and Mrs. Markham, blonde, smiling and innocent, was talking to the Colonel, saying to him the words that he liked to hear and soothing his wounded spirit.

Mrs. Markham had just come from Richmond to visit the General, and she told gaily of events in the Southern capital.

“We are cheerful there, Colonel,” she said, “confident that such men as you will win for us yet. Oh, we hear what is going on. They print news on wall-paper, but we get it somehow. We have our diversions, too. It takes a thousand dollars, Confederate money, to buy a decent calico dress, but sometimes we have the thousand dollars. Besides, we have taken out all the old spinning-wheels and looms and we’ve begun to make our own cloth. We don’t think it best that the women should spend all their time mourning while the men are at the front fighting so bravely.”

Mrs. Markham chattered on; whatever might be the misfortunes of the Confederacy they did not seem to impress her. She was so lively and cheerful, and so deftly mingled compliments with her gaiety, that Prescott did not wonder at Harley’s obvious attraction, but he was not sorry to see the frown deepen on the face of the Colonel’s sister. The sound of some soldiers singing a gay chorus reached their ears and he asked Helen if she would come to the door of the house and see them. She looked once doubtfully at the other woman, but rose and went with him, the two who were left behind making no attempt to detain her.

“Too much watching is not good, Helen,” said Prescott, reproachfully. “You are looking quite pale. See how cheerful the camp is! Did you ever before hear of such soldiers?”

She looked over the tattered army as far as she could see and her eyes grew wet.

“War is a terrible thing,” she replied, “and I think that no cause is wholly right; but truly it makes one’s heart tighten to see such devotion by ragged and half-starved soldiers, hardly a man of whom is free from wound or scar of one.”

The rolling thunder of a cannon shot came from a point far to the left.

“What is that?” she asked.

“It means probably that the tacit truce is broken, but it is likely that it is more in the nature of a range-finding shot than anything else. We are strongly intrenched, and as wise a man as Grant will try to flank us out of here, before making a general attack. I am sure there will be no great battle for at least a week.”

“And my brother may be well in that time,” she said. “I am so anxious to see him once more in the saddle, where he craves to be and where he belongs.”

There are women who prefer to see the men whom they love kept back by a wound in order that they might escape a further danger, but not of such was Helen. Prescott remembered, too, the single glance, like a solitary signal shot, that had passed between her and Mrs. Markham.

“We are all anxious to see Colonel Harley back in the saddle,” he replied, “and for a good reason. His is one of our best sabers.”

Then she asked him to tell her of the army, the nature of the position it now occupied, the movements they expected, and he replied to her in detail when he saw how unaffected was her interest. It pleased him that she should be concerned about these things and should understand them as he explained their nature; and she, seeing his pleasure, was willing to play upon it. So talking, they walked farther and farther from the house and were joined presently by the cheerful Talbot.

“It’s good of you to let us see you, Miss Harley,” he said. “We are grateful to your brother for getting wounded so that you had to come and nurse him; but we are ungrateful because he stays hurt so long that you can’t leave him oftener.”

Talbot dispensed a spontaneous gaiety. It was his boast that he could fall in love with every pretty girl whom he saw without committing himself to any. “That is, boys,” he said, “I can hover on the brink without ever falling over, and it is the most delightful sensation to know that you are always in danger and that you will always escape it. You are a hero without the risk.”

He led them away from more sober thoughts, talking much of Richmond and the life there.

They went back presently to the house and met Mrs. Markham at the door just as she was leaving.

“The Colonel is so much better,” she said sweetly to Miss Harley. “I think that he enjoys the visits of friends.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied the girl coldly, and she went into the room.