poet, a great man, crossed the field of Louisburg as it lay dotted with
the heaps of slain, and dotted also with the groups of those who sought
their slain; crossed that field of woe, meeting only hatred and
despair, yet leaving behind only tears and grief. Tears and grief, it
is true, yet grief that knew of sympathy, and tears that recked of
other tears.

For a long time the lines of invasion had tightened about the old city
of Louisburg, and Louisburg grew weaker in the coil. When the clank of
the Southern cavalry advancing to the front rang in the streets, many
were the men swept away with the troops asked to go forward to silence
the eternally throbbing guns. Only the very old and the very young
were left to care for the homes of Louisburg, and the number of these
grew steadily less as the need increased for more material at the
front. Then came the Southern infantry, lean, soft-stepping men from
Georgia and the Carolinas, their long black hair low on their necks,
their shoes but tattered bits of leather bound upon their feet, their
blankets made of cotton, but their rifles shining and their drill
perfection. The wheat lay green upon the fields and the odours of the
blossoms of the peach trees hung heavy on the air; but there was none
who thought of fruitage or of harvest. Out there in front, where the
guns were pulsing, there went on that grimmer harvest with which the
souls of all were intimately concerned. The boys who threw up their
hats to greet the infantry were fewer than they had been before the
blossoming of the peach. The war had grown less particular of its
food. A boy could speed a bullet, or could stop one. There were yet
the boys.

Of all the old-time families of this ancient little city none held
position more secure or more willingly accorded than the Fairfaxes and