her. He could see the big firm hand grip the pistol's handle in a clasp
of steel as he waited the signal of Death. He wondered what sort of
wound Dickenson's bullet had made in the General's breast. Anyhow, it
had not been fatal. His enemy lived but a few hours.

He set his lips firmly, and repeated the Tennesseean's verdict:

"Served him right, too."

The Boy left the Hermitage under the spell of Old Hickory's personality
for life. He had seen a great man.




IV

THE MONASTERY BELLS


The journey from Nashville to Springfield, Kentucky, was quick and
uneventful. Long before the spire of St. Thomas' church loomed on the
horizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the Dominican
monks. The grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of a
sea of golden-yellow wheat. His workmen were sleek negro slaves. Herds
of fat cattle grazed on the hills. A flock of a thousand sheep were
nipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. They passed a big flour
mill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing waters
of the creek that watered the rich valley. The monks were vowed to
poverty and self-denial. But their Order was rich in slaves and land, in