"_Surrounding us?_" Mrs. Cary whispered, hardly believing her ears.

"Yes, it's true--all too true," the man burst out bitterly. "We can
fight against thousands--and against tens of thousands but, darling, we
can't fight half the world."

He sank down on the bench, one elbow on his crossed knee, the other arm
hanging listlessly by his side. His face grew lined and haggard. All the
spirit, the indomitable courage of a moment ago had fled before the
revelation that, try as they might, they could never conquer in this
terribly unequal fight. Then he threw out his hand and began to speak,
half to her and half to the unseen armies of his fellows.

"Our armies are exhausted. Dwindling day by day. We are drawing from the
cradle and the grave. Old men--who can scarcely bear the weight of a
musket on their shoulders: and boys--mere children--who are sacrificed
under the blood-stained wheels. The best! The flower of our land! We
are dumping them all into a big, red hopper. Feed! Feed! Always more
feed for this greedy machine of war!"

Silently wife and daughter came to the man in his despair, as if to ward
off some dark shape which hovered over him with brushing wings. Their
arms went around him together.

"There, there, dear," he heard a soft voice whisper, "don't grow
despondent. _Think!_ Even though you've fought a losing fight it has
been a glorious one--and God will not forget the Stars and Bars!
Remember,--you still have us--who love you to the end--and fight your
battles--on our knees."