that this one was wounded or sick to death--would either come back
unharmed? She knew now what her own mother must have suffered, and what
it must have cost her to tell her sons what she had told hers that
night. Ah, God, was it all to come again?




V


Some days later a bugle blast started Crittenden from a soldier's cot,
when the flaps of his tent were yellow with the rising sun. Peeping
between them, he saw that only one tent was open. Rivers, as
acting-quartermaster, had been up long ago and gone. That blast was
meant for the private at the foot of the hill, and Crittenden went back
to his cot and slept on.

The day before he had swept out of the hills again--out through a
blossoming storm of dogwood--but this time southward bound.
Incidentally, he would see unveiled these statues that Kentucky was
going to dedicate to her Federal and Confederate dead. He would find his
father's old comrade--little Jerry Carter--and secure a commission, if
possible. Meanwhile, he would drill with Rivers's regiment, as a soldier
of the line.

At sunset he swept into the glory of a Southern spring and the hallowed
haze of an old battlefield where certain gallant Americans once fought
certain other gallant Americans fiercely forward and back over some six
thousand acres of creek-bottom and wooded hills, and where Uncle Sam was