Slowly the man looked up.

"Forgive me, honey," he murmured remorsefully. "You are right--and
bravest, after all. It is you--you women, who save us in the darkest
hours. You--our wives--our mothers--who wage a silent battle in the
lonely, broken homes. You give us love and pity--tenderness and tears--a
flag of pride that turns defeat to victory. The women of the South," he
cried, and Herbert Cary doffed his hat before his wife, "the crutch on
which the staggering hope of Dixie leans!"

There came, then, the sound of hurrying footsteps. Once more Sally Ann
rushed from the house but this time genuine danger was written plainly
in her face.

"Mars' Cary! Mars' Cary! Dey's comin' dis time--sho' 'nuff!"

"How many?" Cary cried, springing for the roadway and his horse.

"Dey's comin' thu' de woods--an' Lawd Gawd, de yearth is fyar blue wid'
'em."

"Billy!" commanded Cary. "Take Lightfoot as fast as you can down to the
edge of the woods. Don't worry, Hallie, they'll never catch me once I'm
in the saddle."

He stooped and kissed her, then caught up Virgie for a last hug, burying
his worn face in her curls. "Good-by, little one. Take good care of
Mother. Good-by!"

With one last grasp his wife caught his hand. "Herbert! which way do you