captain yet."

By and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps";
then another and another and another still. At last, when all were
through, "taps" rose once more out of the darkness to the left. This
last trumpeter had waited--he knew his theme and knew his power. The
rest had simply given the command:

"Lights out!"

Lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's
life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden's life just now
something that once was dearer than life itself.

"Love, good-night."

Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another
than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his
cot--thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift
to pull away the veil from the statues again. So it had always been with
him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted,
and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on
fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be
done, and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back
to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass. And he wondered
what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his
sleep--dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa--with his mind's
eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his
heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he
had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had