Crittenden raised his hat gravely in recognition of the same honour,
little dreaming that he was soon to follow that standard up a certain
Cuban hill.

What a picture!

There the nation was concentrating its power. Behind him that nation was
patching up its one great quarrel, and now a gray phantom stalked out of
the past to the music of drum and fife, and Crittenden turned sharply to
see a little body of men, in queer uniforms, marching through a camp of
regulars toward him. They were old boys, and they went rather slowly,
but they stepped jauntily and, in their natty old-fashioned caps and old
gray jackets pointed into a V-shape behind, they looked jaunty in spite
of their years. Not a soldier but paused to look at these men in gray,
who marched thus proudly through such a stronghold of blue, and were not
ashamed. Not a man joked or laughed or smiled, for all knew that they
were old Confederates in butter-nut, and once fighting-men indeed. All
knew that these men had fought battles that made scouts and Indian
skirmishes and city riots and, perhaps, any battles in store for them
with Spain but play by contrast for the tin soldier, upon whom the
regular smiles with such mild contempt; that this thin column had seen
twice the full muster of the seven thousand strong encamped there melt
away upon that very battlefield in a single day. And so the little
remnant of gray marched through an atmosphere of profound respect, and
on through a mist of memories to the rocky little point where the
Federal Virginian Thomas--"The Rock of Chickamauga"--stood against
seventeen fierce assaults of hill-swarming demons in butter-nut, whose
desperate valour has hardly a parallel on earth, unless it then and
there found its counterpart in the desperate courage of the brothers in
name and race whose lives they sought that day. They were bound to a