ground sacred, hedged high about, not rudely to be violated.

But the band major was a poet, a great man. There came to him no order
telling him what he should do, but the thing was in his soul that
should be done. There came to him, wafted from the field of sorrow, a
note which was command, a voice which sounded to him above the voices
of his own brasses, above the tapping of the kettledrums. A gesture of
command, and the music ceased absolutely. A moment, and it had resumed.

The forty black horses which made up this regimental band were the
pride of the division. Four deep, forty strong, with arching necks,
with fore feet reaching far and drooping softly, each horse of the
famous cavalry band passed on out upon the field of Louisburg with such
carriage as showed it sensible of its mission. The reins lay loose
upon their necks, but they kept step to the music which they felt.
Forty horses paced slowly forward, keeping step. Forty trumpeters,
each man with his right hand aloft, holding his instrument, his left
hand at his side, bearing the cap which he had removed, rode on across
the field of Louisburg. The music was no longer the hymn of triumph.

Softly and sadly, sweetly and soothingly, the trumpets sang a melody of
other days, an air long loved in the old-time South. And Annie Laurie,
weeping, heard and listened, and wept the more, and blessed God for her
tears!




BOOK II